Atonement
by MrsCumberbatch
Summary: Sequel to "Alone Is What We Have". Sherlock had deleted John's existence from his hard-drive and now he is dead. The only things left are vague memories, unspoken words and regrets. Now Sherlock Holmes must face a life without John Watson, and some things are not always easy to atone.
1. Sometimes

**Title:**

**"Atonement"**

**Summary:**

**Sequel to "Alone Is What We Have". Sherlock had deleted John's existence from his hard-drive and now he is dead. The only things left are vague memories, unspoken words and regrets. Now Sherlock Holmes must face a life without John Watson, and some things are not always easy to atone.**

**Rated:**

**M**

**Genre:**

**Angst/Drama**

**Warnings:**

**Angst, mentions of dead character and dark themes such as suicide and self destruction. Also, mentions of sexual situations and drugs abuse. **

**Disclaimer:**

**Neither Sherlock (BBC) nor the respective characters belong to me.**

**Beta:**

**librarianmum**

**Author's Note:**

**Welcome to "Atonement", third installment which follows "Verita Liberabit Vos" and "Alone Is What We Have". Hope you like it and please, if you have the time, review!**

* * *

**CHAPTER I:**

**SOMETIMES**

Reckless silence, dangerous residues and life-long regrets. Empty spaces inside his mind palace, deleted folders and documents. Vague memories, unspoken and dangerous words, a memory of a fist on the air and two blue eyes silently begging for mercy. His absence on their bed, the lack of his scent on the flat, the silent kettle and the bag full of lollipops on the counter. A wrinkled white coat, a colorful and somehow warm stethoscope and the rest of their wedding picture which he saved from the floor. Dust everywhere but not on his worn armchair or on the few belongings John left before he died.

Sherlock feels John has taken his life when he died, that coldish night when he closed his blue eyes to never open them again. The detective believes his husband has gone to where he belonged, taking off his sadness and grief, leaving them with Sherlock to keep him company while the rest of John is somewhere else, being happy and finally having some rest. In the process, Sherlock also believes that when John took his damaged soul to be fixed by the god the doctor truly believed in, the doctor also took his – Sherlock's. Why would John take Sherlock's dark and poisonous soul with him? Would John repair it and send it back to him? Would John exorcise the demons in his soul and then come back to return it?

Would John come back?

It has to be said - Sherlock has to say it out loud, he has to let it go. He needs to admit John will never come back to him, because Sherlock had built a high wall and John was too short and too stubborn to climb it. That wall burns and hurts, you can die if you even try to touch it. And that's what happened to John Watson. He tried to undo that dangerous wall removing brick by brick but somehow he surrendered in the process. You can die if you try to reach Sherlock Holmes's heart; there is enough poison to make your own heart and soul rot and then die without warning. John knew it, but he had hope.

Sometimes, hope is not enough.

Sherlock is sitting in his own armchair, and he looks at John's. It is cold and unused and he has to clean it using a piece of old fabric to prevent dust from making it look different from the day John used it for the last time. Does Sherlock remember the last time John sat on that worn armchair? Well, to be honest, Sherlock does remember that day. Because that day, Sherlock signed John's death sentence with his own hand.

After the episode in which the detective had John pressed against the bookshelves, hit his sore head against one book and then raised a fist on the air, getting himself ready to beat his husband to a bloody pulp, Sherlock sat in front of John. Sherlock took a warm and perfect cup of tea John had made for him and then Sherlock looked at the doctor while he wrote his last letters, saying all the things he could not say using his own lips because he was mute, because John had gone deaf and mute after he heard Sherlock's first accusations. Sherlock had shown John his true colours when he mentioned the lovers, his lack of love, feelings and sexual desire and instantaneously, the doctor's mind locked every possible way in which John could hear and see the things Sherlock had perfectly aimed as a gun, to shoot John Watson and to then to watch him dying.

Sherlock remembers that day and closes his greyish and bloodshot sad eyes every time he recalls every single one of John's gestures, the position of his skinny legs, how he was holding the pen, the way he closed the envelopes, he remembers everything. However, what Sherlock can remember is that awful day and nothing else. He wishes he could remember their first dates as something else than friends, the day John proposed - or was it him? - their wedding day, their first night together, those nights in which he only wanted to repeat and moan his husband's name and nothing else. But no, it's not that easy for Sherlock. He had deleted those moments, those words and John's touches and kisses. Now it's too late to recover the lost data. There is nothing but white spaces, cloudy and vague memories he is relieved his mind can still map out.

But it is not enough.

And as it is not enough, what haunts Sherlock the worst is the fact he can only remember John's last day in his life and it hurts like hell to only be able to remember all those hurtful words he addressed to him, his intention to hit John, and then his husband's last words and finally, Sherlock remembers begging twice, three times, countless times to his dead husband to come back, to stop the _game_ and not to leave him alone. He begged, and then Sherlock asked for forgiveness and redemption, then the promises... Sherlock even remembers hitting John's lifeless and motionless body with his violin's bow. That angry feeling came over him and he did it without thinking about it.

When Sherlock sits on his armchair and faces the door of 221B, he presses John's letter against his chest and cries. And while he cries, he waits expectantly at eight p.m. every day for John to come back. Every day, every single day he sits in his armchair, presses John's letter against his chest, cries silently and waits. Sherlock sits there and waits until he realises John is not going to come back. He also asks for forgiveness. Not only about the things he did for months, almost a year or was it two? For how long he had been stabbing and ripping John's heart until he finally gave up? Sherlock would never know, because he can't remember! But he asks forgiveness for hitting his dead body and not respecting his last wish. John only asked him one thing and it was respect for his body, and he didn't fulfill that wish.

The detective reads the letter every day and now he knows it by heart. His hands are shaking every time he reads that section in which John asked him when everything started, and if he could remember the exact moment in which he stopped loving him. Sherlock never stopped, he was just blind. His brilliant, magnificent and also poisonous mind blindfolded him and now that ghostly piece of fabric that was over his eyes, covering them from reality has fallen, and now Sherlock can see clearly. Now Sherlock can see with his own eyes the damage he caused, not only to himself but to John... John died. Because of his venom, his bright mind and his stupid conception of weakness, Sherlock killed the only love of his life.

John also mentioned he wanted to talk about these things with him. That he would always regret not being able to do so face to face. Well, while Sherlock waits, he also talks alone, thinking that John is there. Sherlock tells him he feels the same way, that he wants him to come back to him, to have the kisses they should have shared, the hugs and the touches that their skins should have felt, and to talk. Sherlock tells him he regrets his silence and he admits, he painfully admits that he can't remember John's sweet and tender voice.

Big tears are rolling down his cheeks when he reads out loud that John would not go back in time and change his fate. If it was his fate, his destiny to die alone and sad, lying on a cold bed next to the same demon. Sherlock says the same, he says he would have all the cocaine of the world if that means he could have people insisting to him to get clean and then look for a flat-share, if only it would give him a chance to meet John again.

Drugs against a war. A childish sibling rivalry against a broken family. Wealth and power against poverty and lack of possibilities.

Sherlock had suffered before meeting John. His own life had been full of strict rules to follow in order to be part of the high society he hated, the heavy expectations his parents had on him and the duty of being a Holmes and acting like one. The drugs were only a way to escape, to show how strong he could be, how defiant he was, and to prove how clever he was even while as high as a kite. However, John suffered as well, differently. His life has been tougher since he was born into a very poor family, in which violence, alcohol and lost hopes were as common as beer in a pub. John had to fight his own fate to grow up and be the man he was. He had to fight for his Queen and for his country to afford medical school and finally become a surgeon and when he returned on a second campaign only to fix people; he ended up getting shot and losing any possibility of working in an operating room again. Sherlock had people to help him, a brother with an important job and enough money to afford the best rehab. John had to live on a pension and sometimes beg to his own sister to talk to him and help him to fight the demons a war always leaves with people.

Sherlock's heart twitches in pain when he thinks that John would live that pain all over again if that meant he could share a life with him again, even their worst moments.

John also confessed him he loved him until the last moment. That he would give his blood, all of it and his own heart if he needed to. But Sherlock says he exceeds him, because Sherlock is willing to give his own life to have his John back. He would sell his own soul to the Demon himself to have John back, and if it was necessary, he would kill himself if that means John could go back and have a new and better life. Even if that does not involve him.

His deceased husband also mentioned he was aware he was going to die naturally and that the one taking his life from this world was no one other than Sherlock. John wrote it, he wrote that he knew he was going to die because of Sherlock and he also wrote that he was giving up because his heart could not beat without Sherlock's love. Every time Sherlock reads this, he can't help but sob loudly. His hands stop shaking and heavy tears fall from his tired eyes every time his mind processes those lines in which John confessed him he could not remember their happy moments, only that time that Sherlock almost hit him, hours before writing that letter.

John also explains he was aware of the hatred Sherlock had for him. And he also expressed that it was not for him to say who was guilty, who had the gun aimed directly at his tired heart. John only wrote that it was in the hands of God.

Sherlock is aware of the words John had used for the letter, to describe him. He is clever enough to see and feel how his husband was feeling when he was writing it and when he was sitting in front of him. John felt fear. John feared him during his last hours. And this breaks Sherlock's heart. It breaks his own heart knowing John died because of him, because of his stupid brain and because of his own blindness. Sherlock wants to kill himself, he wants to aim a gun and shot his brains out, because he blames his brain for doing this. Sherlock had let his brain rule his heart when he was not supposed to, and now the consequences are devastating. Everything Sherlock touches has to rot and die, without a second chance. That's what John wanted to change, and he died trying.

It has been days and days since John died and Mycroft took his body away from him. Sherlock wanted to bury him, he wanted to give him the grave that all his inheritance and earnings could pay for. He wanted a place in which John's soul, body and life could be respected and honored. Sherlock wanted to build a place that represented the love and the admiration he had for his husband. But that was impossible. His love for John was endless, and it was never going to die. However, John's wishes were different. He wanted to be taken away from him and from Baker Street. He wanted Mycroft to take him away to burn his body with the flag of the country he had fought for, his medals and his wedding ring. John did not want Sherlock to be part of that process, he did not wanted Sherlock to be present, and he did not want Sherlock to know where he wanted his ashes to be thrown.

After more than two hours waiting for John to come back from work, Sherlock realises he is dead and that nothing will bring him back. Waiting for him for hours on end, pressing his letter against his chest and crying will not bring him back and what finally makes his chest ache, is the fact John is resting and in peace somewhere he doesn't know about. Sherlock wants to know, he wants to be there and go every day and talk to him, say all those unspoken words that led to John's death. He wants to ask him for forgiveness and he also wants to ask him how he can survive without him, what he can do to live day after day without seeing his lovely face, without touching his soft hair, without looking into those deep blue eyes, and without kissing those soft and sweet lips.

Because without John, Sherlock has no life.

* * *

His older brother does not tell him. And Sherlock goes down and his knees meet the soft, expensive but cold carpet on Mycroft's office floor. He begs him and tells him he will do whatever he wants him to do, because he needs to know where John's ashes are. Sherlock hugs his brother's legs and asks him.

Mycroft reminds him of his promise, that he had promised John and that he is a man who keeps his word, like John always did.

"I need to know, please Mycroft tell me, please brother. I'm begging you!"

Mycroft looks down at his brother and successfully fights the tears that were threatening to escape his green eyes. His brother, his little brother Sherlock Holmes who used to claim himself a sociopath, a man without feelings or a heart, someone with pride is on the floor, on his knees and begging.

The older Holmes never encountered love, he never loved anyone, but now he can see what love does to people. And his brother is the evidence of the power love has, because his brother, who begged twice or even more times to John to come back, is now begging him. He can see how lost Sherlock is. His greyish and defiant eyes are now red, cloudy, lifeless. It looks like he has been barely been taking care of himself, his hair looks a mess, his clothes are dirty and he stinks. However, Mycroft can't smell any alcohol or traces of any drugs either. Mycroft thinks that if love was a drug, Sherlock would be addicted to it. See now how the abstinence is killing him. Maybe that is what killed John, his drug dealer forgot his best and only client.

But the older brother takes his sibling by his arms and helps him to stand up. He has been in the presence of many important and dangerous people in order to prevent his country from terrorism and destruction and to keep it high in the world, he has been present in many crucial meetings and moments, but he had decided he is not going to be part of _this_. Mycroft remember his promise, he had promised John he would keep his location secret, but he also remembers John made him promise he would look after Sherlock, and that he would make sure Sherlock forgot him and got on with his life. But he can't see him like this, on the floor, crying and begging. This is not Sherlock, this is not real, this shouldn't be real, this should be a dream. Mycroft wishes this was a dream, but it is not. This is as real as the fact the sky is blue, and as two plus two is four. This is not a dream from which you can wake up.

Mycroft will have to choose his side.

He asks Sherlock for time, and he agrees. Of course Sherlock agrees, the only thing he wants is to know where his husband is, and he is willing to give and do anything for that information.

When his brother asks him if he needs anything else, Sherlock doesn't think twice and replies with the first and the only thing he has on his mind and within his heart.

"John."

* * *

Sherlock Holmes is devoted and, in his search for answers, he looks for things that help him to remember. A man in his early forties should not be doing this, he should be able to remember, to recall all those moments with his husband, their laughs, their public moments on cases, their dinners, their kisses and the most private moments between them. Sherlock is young, he is forty two and he should be able to remember John's exact eye colour, John's soft hair, John's sweet and tender voice and John's contagious laugh. He is a healthy man, he should remember what his husband's lips tasted like, how warm and soft his skin was, how caring his touches were and how painfully seductive his voice was when John used to whisper in his ear.

Sherlock can't remember and this is making him lose his own sanity. Or what remains of it.

He thinks he sees John everywhere round the flat. When he comes in, he immediately looks at the kitchen, but it is bleak and the kettle is abandoned. John is not there and there is no hot and perfect tea. When he goes to the loo and looks at himself in the mirror, he sees John standing behind him, looking at him sadly in the eye. When Sherlock goes to their room, he sees John lying on his back, with his eyes closed, but breathing. Sherlock can see the ribcage going up and down, John is breathing. As soon as Sherlock sees John everywhere, and as soon as he tries to talk to him and touch him, John disappears. He vanishes and Sherlock is alone again.

Sherlock wonders if John is playing with him. He asks himself if John has not reached wherever he was meant to be (probably somewhere where he can finally get some rest and peace) and he is just there, in the world of the livings walking lifeless and soulless without any place to go, just walking round and haunting Sherlock's soul forever.  
He never believed in ghosts, though. To the great detective in the funny hat , ghosts were something people hold on to believe in something because they could not believe the evidence of their own eyes.

At times, he lies in bed and sees a ghostly form of John. This shadow lies next to him, but his eyes are closed. Sherlock can't figure out how to make this shadow that looks like his husband open his eyes. God, he needs to see those eyes. Something inside him craves for a glimpse of John's blue eyes. He loved and he still loves those blue orbs that enchanted him once, the first time they met. Sherlock never knows if this ghostly figure is a product of his own imagination and resulting from the intensive search he has been doing inside his mind palace, or if it _is_ indeed John, who is still in this world, going nowhere.

He asks God if he has already taken John's soul, because he wants a second chance. Sherlock wants to talk to John, he must talk to him once again, just one more time, but no one is going to tell him where he is, where his ashes are, why he wanted to be there... he must know, or he is going to go crazy.

Sherlock turns to face John's side, but the shadow is gone. John's smell is faint now, he can hardly smell it and this makes his heart ache. He needs more John, more of his scent, more of his tea, more of his sweet and worn clothes. Sherlock needs John. This also leads him to talk to himself. On one of those days of waiting for John to come back after work, Sherlock asks questions and waits for John to answer them, but there is only silence.

Sherlock asks if this grief and sadness are the same feelings John had on his chest when he died. He asks if there is any possible way to take the guilt off his shoulders, if there is a possible way to meet him again.

Oh Sherlock, you already know the answer!

You have done far too many things to the poor soldier. You have stabbed, kicked and spit on John's heart far too many times to go back in time and fix this mess. You still have blood stains on your hands. You are covered in John's red blood and it is unbearable, isn't it?

Guess what, Sherlock?

Sometimes you have to reach your own limits to understand how far you can go.

Sometimes you have to make the same mistake more than once or twice to finally learn the lesson.

Sometimes you have to experience the pain to understand how it much it hurts.

Sometimes you have to kill the one you love to understand what you have lost.

Sometimes you have to see before you understand and then you will believe.

Sherlock, if everything you touch rots and dies, be careful. Some day, you will have to aim a gun to your head and press the trigger if you want to see John again.

_And some things are not easy to atone._


	2. Tick tock goes the clock

**CHAPTER II:**

**TICK-TOCK GOES THE CLOCK...  
**

He finds himself at a crossroads. There are two distinct roads in front of him and each of them are different. Mycroft had made promises, and directly or indirectly, John left it to him. This is totally up to Mycroft, and he has to make a choice, he has to choose a side and stick to it and to that person, as well as the promises he made: make sure Sherlock forgets John and protect him, keep Sherlock alive.

Mycroft wonders how he can possibly choose one path.

He is walking among a place covered by green and very well cared grass. There are also trees, very tall and old trees and flower beds everywhere you look. His green eyes scan the place and he remembers the scene and the layout by heart. It's not difficult to find the modest and also the most beautiful grave in the place. It is a small grey stone, curved, with his name engraved on it. No dates, no inscriptions, his name and nothing else. That's how John would have liked it. Simple, modest and beautifully situated; surrounded by the most beautiful flowers he has ever seen.

The older Holmes is alone, and he places his dark umbrella next to his right leg when he stops walking. He makes a gesture with his head, showing his respects to the man that the grave represents. No, John is not there. As he promised, Mycroft took John's medals, his flags and the wedding ring with him on that day, 16th of April, and went straight to the place he had planned to burn John Watson's body.

His people had dressed John in his army uniform and Mycroft had had to do something he never thought he would; before covering John's body with the flag, he put John's wedding ring on his ring finger and his medals underneath his hands, which had been delicately placed over his stomach. This was something Mycroft did while tears were falling freely from his eyes. This was something a wife or a husband would do, but John did not want Sherlock to do it. John died fearing Sherlock, and it broke Mycroft's heart to have to do that, to prepare, to give the last touches to John's body before it met the warm and destructive fire. That's what John had decided. He did not want Sherlock to know where he was. John feared Sherlock would profane his grave. Mycroft knew about the violent episode that had occurred after John went to the Yard to set Sherlock free. It was not impossible to think that John may have died from fear. Fear of his own husband, the man he loved and the man he married till death do them part. John had warned him: Sherlock was a man of strange tendencies.

Mycroft wondered if, now that death had parted them, John, wherever he was, was still in love with Sherlock.

His assistant had stood firmly beside him the whole time. Mycroft could not raise his gaze from the floor. The entire place was being secured and monitored by highly-trained security agents. He'd promised John - Sherlock would not witness that scene, that scene in which his damaged body was consumed by the fire only to be reduced to ashes. The older Holmes knew his brother was clever and within minutes he would know where he was and where John's ashes would be finally be deposited. But he was not able to allow that. Mycroft did not want Sherlock to be there, and it did not matter to him how hard and how honest Sherlock's begging and promises were - he would not tell him a word.

His assistant had kept him informed as she read the news she was receiving on her smartphone every now and then. The younger Holmes was still inside Baker Street. On their bed.

Now, by the grave, Mycroft takes a deep breath before explaining the reasons for his visit. There is no one resting six feet under that grave. It was just a symbol, a symbolic place he wanted John to have, because that was the last thing he could do. But Mycroft Holmes is a man of manners and he was raised in an atmosphere where high levels of politeness and good deportment were expected. So he keeps his manners and his semblance and asks John what he needs to know. He tells John he needs to know what he should do. Mycroft wants to know if he can tell Sherlock about the location of his ashes or about the location of that symbolic grave.

Mycroft Holmes places a hand over his pocket, where John's last letter is hidden very deep inside. He does not cry, but he says only that he will keep his promise, he will keep Sherlock safe, alive. But Sherlock wants to know, he wants to know where John is. Mycroft also confesses to John Sherlock could die if he does not tell him.

It is simple: Mycroft puts all his cards on the table and he tells John. He tells John what he has done and what he can do, and he asks him if that is OK with him. He explains the reasons why he had bought that piece of land for him and just for him, why he had hired a gardener to take care of the trees and the flower beds, that he would even pay someone a large sum of money if that only meant that the sun would shine over that stone with his name on it every single day. Mycroft tells him the truth and he also shares the feeling John had when he'd written the letter. But he disagrees with something. Mycroft tells John how much Sherlock wanted to be there, when he took his dead body away from him and from Baker Street.

"He begged. He couldn't bear not to have been there."

The older brother also tells him he owes him, because without him, Sherlock was so lost, so alone. Mycroft tells John if there is a god or a supreme power above them, he asks him to thank him for his existence. Mycroft thanks John for his existence and he apologises almost immediately when he realises his mistake. John was the only one who could have saved his brother and he had been was stupid enough to kill him, to kill the only man who truly loved for who he was, the only man who truly cared for him and the only man that life will give him. John Watson only appears once in people's lives.

"So what should I do, John? If I don't tell him, he dies. You know he will die." Mycroft said while he looked at the soft but strong and deep engraving on that stone.

"Sherlock was so alone until you came. I never said thank you properly, so this place belongs to you. This is the place I'm giving you so your friends can come and visit. But you deserve more, believe me John, you deserve more. I have to tell my brother about this place, and I'm sorry if I'm upsetting you, but I can't see him like this, not anymore,"

Mycroft bites his upper lip and continues talking to that cold stone, thinking John is there, listening and approving.

"He begged, John. Sherlock is a mess and he needs you because otherwise he will kill himself. Let him visit you here, let him tell you the words he has never told you, and please, forgive me," He can hardly speak any more, but he manages a last sentence before leaving. "He will come soon, I promise John. _I'm sorry_."

Mycroft turns and walks a few feet away when he feels a cold breeze on his neck. It is almost summer, and the weather is perfect. There was not any kind of wind today, but he swears he felt a soft and warm breeze on his neck. He stops and turns to look at John's grave.

It looks like John has accepted Mycroft's request.

* * *

No one ever imagined John Watson was going to die this way. It took them all by surprise, even though the events behind the closed doors of Baker Street had not been that private. Most of them blinded themselves and decided to let him die. None of them reached out John's hand to take him away from Sherlock. Not even when they all knew John needed help, because Sherlock Holmes, the love of his life, stabbed, kicked and spat on John's fragile heart until the day he died.

No one ever thought this was going to happen in the way that it happened.

It was a sunny Monday, the day the entire world realised John Watson had died. The news was spread quickly by Mycroft to all who cared for John. The clinic where John worked received a letter, and none of the doctors, the nurses, the receptionist, the mothers and the children could believe it. It broke their hearts to know that the lovely Dr. John Watson had died. However, as a symbol of the love they had for him, every person working at the clinic wore a black band on their coats and scrubs showing their respects for the deceased doctor, and they kept his memory close to their hearts.

It was difficult to explain to the children that John was not going to come back. The new patients would see a new doctor, but the old ones, the ones who grown up visiting John's office after a tummy ache or maybe a cold or during an episode of chicken pox, those kids were really sad. Mothers cried, but tried to hide it from their kids. When the children asked if he had been ill and most of their parents said yes, only because they did not know what to say, the kids asked them why no one had tried to fix him, as he had always helped them.

That little piece of land Mycroft bought for John is famous. Lots of people visit that lovely place and the gardener makes sure that the trees, the flower beds and the grass looks as perfect as the man who is not there deserves. The stone is also clean and every day a new item is added to it. The first one who comes after the older brother is a blonde and very sweet lady named Mary. She comes almost every day in the mornings after her shift and very late in the afternoon, almost at night. She wears very colorful scrubs and it's very obvious that she's a children's nurse.

During her first visit, she brings a stethoscope which she delicately puts over the stone with "John Hamish Watson" engraved on it, a lollipop and a few drawings she says were made by the children who knew him. Then she brings new flowers every day, new drawings and a letter from a child John was helping after they discovered he had cancer. Mary opens the envelope and reads the letter to the cold stone with tears in her green eyes. Mary also sits on the grass, not really caring for her clothes, and she tells John about the clinic, about the kids and how they are progressing. Somehow she manages not to talk about the ones who are not so well and she even tells him that none of the new doctors are as good as he was and most of the mothers always complain.

Mary confesses to him that she remembers all the stories he once told her, those about his times in the Army, those about college and medical school. She also says that he never told her about those famous stories she had found on the internet, but Mary quickly adds that she already knows why.

"Was I the only one who ever listened, John?"

The blonde woman cries when she thanks him for everything. Everything she knows was taught to her by John. Mary also confesses that she misses their ritual, their daily ritual in which she always made tea for him and they talked about everything. And she confesses more: Mary loved John's ability to fix kids. She loved the way he used to hang his own stethoscope round his neck. She loved the way he smiled. She loved the way John talked to the worried mothers and she loved the way John smiled.

Mary loved John.

She loved John so much it hurt her. And as she loved him, she was completely aware of John's hellish life after work. She could tell because of John's sad eyes, because of his sore throat, because of the wrinkles around his eyes and because of his words. Every time John told her something about his life, it felt like she was the only one in the world listening.

Mary always suspected the famous husband was a demon. It was public knowledge that John was married to Sherlock Holmes, the famous consulting detective. Mary used to look at pictures of him in the papers, sometimes on the internet, and sometimes she would glance at the picture of him that John had on his desk. Every time Mary looked at that picture, she wondered why John never talked about him. Mary wondered what Sherlock Holmes had going for him to have captured a man like John. John was so loving, he cared for people and he was gentle. He was the kind of man every girl would love to introduce to her parents. She never met Sherlock, but, looking at pictures of him, Mary felt scared. Those greyish and cloudy eyes, his high cheekbones, those dark curls... Mary always felt scared when she looked at Sherlock's picture on John's desk.

The question should be why John had chosen Sherlock.

Mary will never know.

For her sake and for John's, Mary never mentions Sherlock Holmes's name. But she tells John she has collected all his things and given them to his brother-in-law, the very same man who had spread the news about his death.

Mary secretly wonders if Sherlock Holmes visits John. She has never seen him there. In addition to the things she leaves, there are occasionally some new flowers. She does not know who leaves them there, but Mary is sure they are not Sherlock's flowers.

After every visit, Mary kisses her hand and then places it over the cold stone. She apologises for her constant presence but she explains she misses him and that she loves him. And that she will always regret not being able to say it to him when he was alive. But maybe John would have never have chosen her. He was Sherlock's. And that is the way he decided to die, being Sherlock's.

* * *

Molly received the news before Mycroft could tell her formally. It was a rumour she heard while she was having lunch and looking now and then to the door to see if John was going to come soon. It was one of those days John would come to pick her up and take her to one little and very cosy restaurant two streets away from Bart's. Sometimes he would appear with a flower or a lollipop for her and she would kindly and fondly smile at him. Her cheeks would turn red and John would laugh.

She was waiting for him when once of her colleagues told her he'd heard that John Watson had died of a heart attack. Molly shook her head and said it was impossible, but it was quickly confirmed when John never appeared to pick her up for lunch that day, the following or the next one. He was not picking up his mobile every time she called him, and he was not replying her messages every time she sent him one until one day Mycroft Holmes and his assistant appeared in her usual lab room and confirmed it.

A heart attack was not possible. Molly refused to believe it when Mycroft told her it was the truth, that there were no reasons to believe otherwise. She insisted that she needed to see the body, she needed to see it and she needed to make sure for herself that Sherlock hadn't killed him. Mycroft swears on his Queen that John had died naturally, that no one had killed him and that it's too late, because John Watson's ashes are where he wanted them to be.

Molly curses because she had seen it, she had seen John and she had seen everything. It was written over his poor, sad face, but she hadn't done anything. She doesn't know whether John ever tried to ask for help, or if he ever asked her. If John ever wanted her to help him, she can't remember. If ever John said good bye to her, she can't remember. However, she is grateful she can remember the good moments and the laughs. John had a very contagious laugh and he was a comedian. He would laugh at everything, even on those rainy days when John didn't seem to have anywhere to go after work.

A place to go, yes, she remembers that day - those days. John would invite her to go to the cinema or to have dinner at some place on the opposite side of the city and they would walk round London. John would offer his arm for her and she would shyly accept. Then, he would take her to her flat and he would say he would go to a pub because he fancied a pint or two. But the truth was that John preferred to walk around in the dark nights alone because, on those days, he couldn't bear to lay next to Sherlock Holmes in _their_ bed.

_"You can always tell a good Chinese by the bottom third of the door handle." _John once told her when he invited for dinner. She knew that was something Sherlock would say.

John once asked her if she was still in love with Sherlock. And Molly blushed. It was awkward to talk about that man. She hadn't seen him in a long time, it was something she really could not put a finger on, but she did not miss him. After years and years of doing whatever he wanted only to please him and nothing else, her mind stopped caring about him. So did her heart. Molly assured him that she was not, and she asked John where Sherlock was. She made the comment that she had not seen him in several months and John sighed tiredly. He only replied that he was away on a case.

"For so long?"

The doctor nodded. John told her that Sherlock was working on one of the biggest and important cases of his career but it was going to end soon. He also told her the results would be surprising for everyone. Molly just nodded and continued talking about her cat and the bodies she was working on.

Now she understands.

Molly feels guilty. She saw it and she didn't do anything. She also wonders if this could have happened to her if she had been in John's position. She wonders if she could have been as strong as John was to break free the way he did. John was strong. A part of her mind thinks he should have walked away, to have a new life and be happy. But the other part of her mind thinks what John did was for the best. Molly knew John, and she also knew that John could not conceive of a life without Sherlock.

Sherlock. Molly does not want to see him again. This is not her, but she can't love him any more, not even as a friend or as a person who has known him for years now. If someday he walks into her lab, she would... she does not know what she would do.

John deserved more. He always deserved more than what Sherlock gave him. Molly can't stop crying. She says this can't be true, but Mycroft only places a hand over hers and tells her about John's grave.

Molly visits John's grave every time she can and every free moment she has. She gets him flowers, the same kind of flowers John used to give her sometimes and she also stays there for long minutes. The first time she could barely say a word and she ran away from the place. But now Molly does not cry anymore. Molly only leaves the flowers close to the other ones and she smiles when she sees the drawings of his patients there.

As if John is there, Molly tells him about her work, her cat... but every time she talks, she can't help but say all the things she regrets. Molly is not the only one who regrets things; she regrets not being able to help John, she regrets not caring as she should have, she regrets not asking him about his sad expressions and his red eyes.

Molly does not only have regrets; she also has confessions to make. She confesses that he was an amazing friend, that all their lunches, dinners and the times they went out to see movies or plays together were the best days of her life. Molly confesses there's not a single day that she doesn't have his laughs and smiles in her mind. She thanks him for being her friend, for caring for her, for laughing at her silly jokes and for being who he was.

"The only thing I regret about meeting you, is the way I did it. I wish I could have met you myself, and not because of _him_."

Molly never, but never ever, mentions Sherlock by name while she visits John.

When she leaves, she waves her hand to the cold stone and she promises she will be back soon.

Molly keeps her promise.

* * *

Whenever Mycroft appears at New Scotland Yard, everyone fears for their lives and for their work. Even the D.I., Greg Lestrade. But the older brother is not there this time to frighten and threaten the members of the police force, he is not there to ask for some CCTV footage to be erased, and he is not there to talk about his brother. He is there to talk about John Watson and Lestrade suddenly does not believe him.

Mycroft, in his own way, assures the D.I of the criminal division of New Scotland Yard that John wanted everything exactly as it happened. That his ashes were secretly deposited where he wanted and all his money were transferred to the pediatric wing of the clinic at which he worked. The contents inside his office are in his possession and that all who cared for John are aware of everything, except for the landlady who is very old and who does not live in the city anymore, and experience has taught Mycroft that sometimes it is better to keep some things secret.

Lestrade does not mention the fact Mycroft Holmes has broken the law. He is just speechless. He is just as speechless every time he visits John's grave.

Every time Greg Lestrade visits John Watson's grave, he can't say a word and he feels like the place is strangely warm, but he feels a cold breeze round his neck. It is strange and scary. However, he remembers the last time he saw him. It was also the day John died. They talked about sports, about a football match, about John's patients, about Sherlock's stupid actions...

God help him, because he knew this was bound to happen as soon as he signed those papers to set Sherlock free.

Lestrade is not as strong as the others. He can't go and talk to John. He only goes when he really can. And sometimes he kneels in front of that stone and asks for forgiveness, because he had seen it and he had not done anything to help him.

Well, I guess John would not have accepted his help.

* * *

The days pass by, Mycroft continues working, signing papers and saving the world and, more likely, the country where he lives. He looks like he always did, he acts like he always did, and he talks like he always did. But his mind is fighting him. There is an internal debate that he does not know how to win.

Eventually, he visits his brother.

Sherlock is sitting in his usual armchair, looking at the clock and waiting for John to come back from work when his brother appears in Baker Street.

Mycroft tells him about that little plot of land and about the cold stone. He explains to his little brother that it does not has John's ashes or his body. But he warns Sherlock he does not want to hear that the place has been destroyed.

"Why would I destroy it?"

The older Holmes does not know if he should say it or not. He hates Sherlock for what he did, and he wonders why he had to be so dark, so mean, so destructive, so hurtful and why he had to murder John Watson. But Mycroft also loves Sherlock, because he is his brother, his blood and he promised he would take care of him and that he would make sure that the detective forgot John and moved on. He still has to find out how to make that possible.

Mycroft will not say it. Not today.

* * *

_When they can't find a way to clean away their sins, the feelings of hatred within their chests, the anger and the dark stains in their souls, people sometimes try to pursue forgiveness, redemption and atonement. People do not realise that after a lifetime accumulating countless dark stains and feelings, they can't clean their chests and their souls so easily within days. People do not realise that some of their sins are impossible to exorcise and the souls become dangerously darker. People do not realise some stains are impossible to erase, to clean. They can't disappear just like that. People do not realise no one has created a way to atone, erase and redeem._

_There isn't a way to clean with your elbows what your hands had already done._

_Some people, despite having a dark, stained and very poisonous soul have the right to keep breathing, walking and living. And they do not know, they do not realise what happens when they face Death. They do realise when they think about it or when they know they are about to die. That's the moment when people try to wash out, to clean off their souls and that's the moment when they realise all the damage they have done to those who really cared for them._

_People are blind, they blindfold themselves most of their lives and they remove that ghostly piece of fabric over their eyes when they know they are close to inhaling and exhaling for the last time. Some people really regret their actions. Some others... some others just ask for forgiveness just for the sake of asking, because that's what people do, don't they?_

_The road people go down when they really want to be forgiven might be short or long. It depends. And some people just need to walk two or three steps until they meet a white light and the same Heaven. That means they are forgiven and that their souls are clean. However, some people walk and walk... and it looks like they will never be forgiven, that they will never reach the end. Their soul gets darker and darker, and even more poisonous than it used to be. Their sins are heavier on their backs, and it becomes impossible to atone._

_Those people keep walking and walking. Some lose hope and others just keep walking. But to those who keep walking, fighting, their hopes are not enough. The same hands, eyes, mouth and mind that used to hurt others turn inwards to hurt themselves instead. They feel the same pain they had once inflicted on others, on their equals._

_Sometimes they need to feel the pain they once caused to understand how much it hurts._

_Can you feel it, Sherlock? Do you understand now? It's not easy, they way is too long and your sins are too many to count, too many to atone. Don't give up. Maybe he will help you to reach the end. And maybe to finally get that forgiveness you are begging for._

_I don't know if Sherlock will find the way, a way to exorcise his own soul and a way to finally calm his magnificent brain and finally allow his heart to beat and rule his life._

_Or what remains of it.  
_

_Tick-tock goes the clock.  
_

_Tick-tock clean your soul.  
_

_Tick-tock do not let it rot.  
_

_Tick-tock listen to the silence.  
_

_Tick-tock the winter is too long.  
_

_Tick-tock goes Sherlock's clock.  
_

___Tick-tock,_

_Tick-tock,_

___Tick-tock,_

_Tick-tock,_

___Tick-tock..._


	3. Four Boxes

**Author's Note:  
Special thanks to librarianmum for being my beta.  
Also, thanks for your lovely reviews, please, keep them coming!**

* * *

**CHAPTER III:**

**FOUR BOXES  
**

A prelude, in its own origin, consisted of the improvisation that musicians did with their own instruments to check the tuning. Initially, it was a short piece of music which introduced another one more extensive and _stronger_. This applies to this situation, since this love story had its own prelude, and it can be explained as an analogy, as a story between a damsel in distress and a Knight in shining armour.

The damsel in distress meets the famous Knight in shining armour after his rescue. In this tale, the damsel is not a sweet and innocent lady but a sociopath and a clever, very clever, man. The Knight in shining armour is not indeed a Knight, so to speak, but a Captain of the British Army, and a doctor. He does not ride a horse, but he uses a cane to walk and he does not wear a shining armour but he has an arsenal of colorful and soft knitted jumpers.

At the beginning, the damsel and the knight shared a very deep friendship, which eventually led them to something else when they both started ruling a Kingdom together, hand by hand. They defied everyone, imposing the justice their own Kingdom needed by solving the most difficult but also the cruelest of crimes that left dark stains in their territory. The damsel seduced everyone with that natural charm and that clever mind, and the Knight in shining armour stood proudly behind his damsel.

The Knight in shining armour believed his damsel was, with that pale skin and dark and soft curls and that clever and brilliant mind, indeed, a pure creature free of bad feelings and resentment. The damsel saw the Knight was handsome, he had good intentions and his armour shone more than gold. The damsel was good, and the Knight couldn't help but fall in love. _They_ fell in love.

However, the years passed and then one morning, the damsel looked at his Knight, who was lying close on their big bed. The damsel noted the knight was not as handsome as before, and his armour was not shining anymore, not like it used to. The damsel took a knife and stabbed the Knight's heart until he died. The damsel once told the Knight "When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the _truth_." So when the Knight felt the weight of his damsel on him, with a knife in hand and stabbing his strong chest, he could not believe what he was seeing and the pain his heart was experiencing. He thought that that was impossible, that he was dreaming but he once told him... he once _warned_ him.

The Knight in shining armour once rode his horse and looked for adventures; he had heard the tale of the damsel who was locked in the last room of a big, scary and almost unreachable castle behind a field full of traps, tall trees, brambles and thorns. The Knight decided to rescue the damsel, and he succeeded. The damsel married him with promises of endless love. The Knight then started to enjoy that power he had, _they_ had over their Kingdom in which they ruled and protected as well. But the damsel forgot the Knight and his intrepid adventure in which he risked his own life to rescue him from the evil wizards and the effects of their white powder, and as soon as the damsel felt his mind was being ruled by his heart, he decided to stab it. But instead of stabbing his own heart, the damsel stabbed his knight's heart.

The damsel _killed_ the Knight.

Now the Kingdom and its damsel are not the same. They both miss their brave Knight in shining armour. And nothing will bring him back, not even the evil witches and wizards running round the lands who sell a poisonous but a very addictive white powder. The damsel does not take it, because the damsel can't die. The damsel has to rule the Kingdom alone.

But maybe the weapon the Knight in the shining armour used to save him once will save this damsel who is now in distress again.

The people living in the Kingdom despise their damsel. They do not like that man with curly and dark hair, high and dangerous cheekbones and greyish eyes. And they will make sure he knows this when he finally visits the Knight's grave.

* * *

He is in between the one he really is, between himself, and the one _he_ wanted him to be. Sherlock faces a battle. His own self against the one he should have been. The former pushes the latter and he tells him to go away, that no one needs him anymore because _he_ died. The one, that one Sherlock has left behind years ago, fights back, and he says the one who died is still there. _He_ will eventually come, he just need to wait.

Sherlock does not know if he should believe this.

But sometimes hope is better than nothing, better than emptiness.

Sherlock's silences, Sherlock's delusions. John's pain, John's stumbling.

It had been a sin to be associated with Sherlock Holmes. A holy and a damning sin, altogether. He was an angel and a demon after all. John's beginning as a sinner started when he asked Sherlock if he was a lonely life traveler, and if he accepted him as a tenant in his arms, kissing him and making himself an addict to the endless gleam of Sherlock's eyes. John made himself an addict to those hands investigating everything, to that sound Sherlock made when he conceived the miracle between their naked and dancing bodies.

The desire, his body, John was an addict to that man named Sherlock Holmes and to how close he was to hell and heaven. If there is a line between those two places, between those different places in which you can find bliss and happiness or curses and pain, Sherlock was standing in the middle and John was there with him. Sherlock skirted that line several times. So did John.

Sherlock gave John a reason to stay alive, he offered and sold him a very poisonous and a very dangerous drug called _love_. As soon as he realized that John had become an addict and that he was his most important, unique and only client, Sherlock stopped selling. He built a heaven, and as soon as he realised that John was comfortable and happy there, he destroyed it. As soon as Sherlock realised that John was enjoying himself far too much he stopped selling love and he destroyed their heaven.

Making John an addict to him and his love never gave Sherlock the right to destroy everything John always conceived of as his whole life. And if he thought John was going to walk away and forget he had once met Sherlock Holmes, he was so wrong.

You just can't give a man a drug, make him an addict and then expect him to quit it so easily.

You just can't, Sherlock.

If John once tried to think of an analogy, something to name the chaos Sherlock had created in his heart and soul, in his life, John died no having the slightest clue or idea. He died not knowing why this had happened to him, what he had done to deserve this and what could be waiting for him after death.

John knows now. Today, John adds hopes to the kisses he missed, he subtracts pain from the bliss he is experiencing. And today John and Sherlock, separated and living in different worlds, share as many wounds as the number of stars you can see in a dark sky. Today, John dreams while Sherlock misses him and while he tries to find a way to forget John.

There are some true facts about life and death, about the world above, about the world below and about the world in between. John only knows the ones in the world above and the ones in which he had already lived. However, Sherlock does not know a single fact about the one in which he is living. Let's see if he finds out something about that world or, if not, the facts about the world below, because John has to be honest, only a few have the opportunity to be truly forgiven. But Sherlock is lucky. He's got a guardian angel.

And Sherlock already knows who his angel is.

* * *

Sherlock thought it was going to be easy, that he was going to be able to go there, say what he has to say and then leave as he promised. But it takes him days that eventually become weeks and then months. If visiting John's symbolic grave was a trial and Sherlock was the accused, God help him, because there are days in which he prefers to stay in jail. If facing John's grave was facing a judge, Sherlock prefers to be sentenced without presenting a defense. If watching John's name engraved on a grey stone was waiting for a jury to decide on his destiny, Sherlock prefers to hang himself instead of waiting for them to do so.

He gets ready, he has a bath, he uses John's cologne and he dresses in his best clothes to visit him. But he can't leave Baker Street. Every time he reaches the door handle, he turns and goes back to his flat. There is something within his chest, within his soul that does not let him go. Something stronger than him is impeding, something stronger than him makes him feel sick every time he thinks about it.

Every day at the same time, Sherlock takes John's letter with him and goes downstairs, but he can't even pass the door.

He and his own heart cry in pain every time he sits in his armchair and waits for John to come back from work. That's something his clever mind tells him can't possibly happen. But his heart is now ruling his life. It does not matter how many times he hears his inner self saying the truth, Sherlock closes his eyes tightly and lets his heart beat and beat. And he waits.

And John's ghost is still there, haunting him constantly.

Every time he looks in the mirror, John is behind him, looking at him and at his reflection. And then Sherlock turns, but no one is there. Sometimes, Sherlock makes tea, and he leaves the cup in the saucer and then goes and picks up John's letter to read it once more and torture his soul, but when he comes back, the cup is empty. Some days he sleeps on the sofa, only wearing his pajamas and nothing else, and later he wakes up with an orange blanket over him.

"John, are you there?"

No one replies.

Sherlock can only think he is going crazy. His mind is playing with him again, trying to fool him again and making him do wrong and bad things. So now, every time he looks at the mirror, he looks for John, and he is not there. He makes tea and places it by John's armchair and then he goes out, but when he comes back, the cup is still untouched. He goes to sleep with nothing covering his body, only to wake up with very cold skin.

One day he goes to the locked room.

Since John's death Mycroft had locked the room upstairs and took the key away with him. And Sherlock is not stupid, he knows how to pick a lock and he knows how he can break in. And taking a hair clip with him, he soon realises that the door has never been locked.

His hand shakes when he places it on the door handle and finally opens the door. It is dark. The windows are closed, and there is dust everywhere. The carpet is dirty, and the bed is only a naked mattress on the floor. There is no furniture left, nothing, not a lamp, nor a chair, nor a bookshelf, nor a desk as he can see there had once been. Sherlock can't remember but he can see with his deductive skills John used to have a bed, a desk, a chair, a lamp and a bookshelf. However, instead of that, he only finds boxes with John's neat handwriting on them, books on the floor and frames covering a significant part of a wall opposite him. It looks like John knew he was going to come.

The first things that catch his attention are the pictures. They are all dusty and it looks like they have been placed there in a particular order. Sherlock walks delicately, as if he does not want to wake somebody up, and on tip-toes he walks until he is facing the wall and the first picture. It is a picture of them posing for the press. They are on the street, and next to them is a little kid offering him a small blue box with a tie pin. His eyes scan the whole picture, his own face, John's, even the kid's expression and he deduces it has been taken many years ago, a couple of days before he had to fake his own death. Sherlock's eyes goes to the second picture which is next to the first. It is one taken by Mrs. Hudson when she was still living there. The detective takes the frame off the wall and stares at it and let his fingers run over John's smiling expression. Both of them are sitting opposite the other, with their respective computers in their spaces on the desk and both of them are smiling. He sees his own left hand is visible for the camera, and he sees he was wearing his wedding ring then. It looked brand new and polished. It looks like he cared at that time.

There are several pictures he can't lay a finger on, he can't remember some of them, and some other he can because there is a small note below them. Most of those pictures had been taken from papers when Sherlock was a very public personality. But the ones he sees and he can't remember a thing about, are those taken in the privacy of their flat.  
There is one in which Sherlock sees himself with a poorly-made cake with a candle at the top. Judging by the fact that the cake looked poorly made, Sherlock deduces he had made it, and it was for one of John's birthdays. John is not in the picture, but he sees himself smiling, strangely smiling and being happy. Instinctively, Sherlock takes the photo off the frame and looks at the back. It has an inscription:

_"John's 45th birthday"_

And it is in his own handwriting.

It was taken four years ago. Almost five. And Sherlock can't remember.

There are others from more intimate moments in the domesticity of their lives together, but most of them are only about him and no one else. All those pictures hanging on that wall are all about Sherlock. Nothing is about John. Only two or three have John on them and nothing else, not even an inscription that helps him to remember. And Sherlock thinks if John made this on purpose only to be forgotten, he is succeeding magnificently.

The books. There is not too much to find. There are very old medical books from John's time in university, some journals about old patients and some new books that reveal some facts Sherlock seemed to have overlooked for months or years. John has a bunch of very brand new books, no more than three years old and those are pediatrics books. All you need to know about children, about their psychology, their development, their diseases and how to fix them, John had it all there. There are also notebooks full of John's handwriting and finally an old stethoscope placed over some old books. With one hand Sherlock takes it and places the cold chest-piece close to his heart and it makes him remember when John used it on him, when he had been ill, when he had been hit by some criminal, or sometimes to experiment. The ear-pieces are in their place and Sherlock listens his own heart beating. His heart beats calmly and he sighs.

He wishes John's heart could be beating again.

Sherlock's curiosity leads him to take a look at the boxes on the floor. There are four boxes and each of them has an inscription with the contents inside. The first one says 'clothes' and when Sherlock carefully opens it, his eyes meet a very colorful jumper he had forgotten about. He delicately takes it our the box and looks at it and closes his eyes trying to find the moment, the memory when he saw John wearing this particular blue jumper and he can't. It is very sad, but he can't recognise this piece of clothing. However, he _can_ recognise the blue striped one he sees under the first one. Sherlock had bought it for his husband, God he loved that jumper on John. But the memories are vague and cloudy, again.

The entire box is full of clothes, just a few pieces of clothing and nothing else and he swears John had more clothes, but his own wardrobe is empty and this is the only box with clothes. Something, John did something to his clothes and to his photographs and Sherlock does not know what, he does not know why... why John did this.

Sherlock folds all the clothes again and places them inside the box and moves to the second one. This one has John's medical kit with bandages, band-aids, alcohol, disinfectant, a Grey's Anatomy book and nothing else. Everything inside that box is cold, and it reminds him of hospitals and the coldness of those places. There are no pills, no aspirins, nothing. Sherlock notes he could only find things to fix a physical wound and not drugs to fix a broken and desperate mind.

The third box has John's toiletries such as a toothbrush, toothpaste, a comb, his shampoo, his aftershave and his cologne. Sherlock uses the cologne on himself and takes a deep breath, filling his own lungs with that sweet scent of John's. His curious hands try to find a hair, something more close and intimate to his husband, but the comb is clean. He can only find superficial things, nothing that helps him to be closer to that person he misses with all his heart.

He thinks he has been beaten until he sees the contents inside the last box.

Sherlock's eyes are not prepared to see what he's about to see. When he opens the fourth box, he sees his clarinet. John's precious and very old clarinet is there, all rusty, covered with dust and forgotten inside. Being so used to finding evidence and traces of people on things, Sherlock looks at it carefully and he can't find traces of John. It has been months since his death, but he can't find traces of his John on the clarinet. His final thoughts are that John hadn't touched his own clarinet for years. And if his memory is not playing games with him, he remembers John loved playing the clarinet while he would play the violin.

But there is more.

Sherlock finds old toys, very old toys he can only deduce were the property of John. There is a teddy bear with a missing eye. It is light brown and it also has a blue jumper. Sherlock smells it and it smells like John and his cologne. There are also cars, a couple of action men and nothing else. This only makes him remember the fact John always wanted to have a baby, he wanted to be a father.

They were aware of biology and that being two men meant that, biologically speaking, a natural conception would be impossible. They were two men and logic stated they needed a womb, therefore, a woman. John was a man, so was Sherlock. Neither of them could possibly carry on a pregnancy and John had been more than insistent on finding surrogate mothers and all the information about adoption and orphanages, how the process worked and so on. In comparison to John, Sherlock never wanted a baby. It could only be an obstacle in his way. He knew he was not going to be able to keep to his work routine, that he would need to change the list of his priorities and not only that, but change himself. And he was not going to do that.

It was hard to make John understand when he was so excited about it. He talked about how perfect their son or daughter could be, how he wanted to decorate the room upstairs for the baby, possible baby names, how delighted Mrs. Hudson was going to be having a little child in Baker Street... And eventually Sherlock made his feelings clear the day John had a plastic jar in his hands ready to help him to collect some of his sperm.

_"I do not want a baby, I am not going to change my lifestyle just because you want one and I am definitely not going to give my sperm for it. You have to understand John, I do not want this in my life. I do not want to be a parent. I was not born for that."_

That was the moment when Sherlock understood why John went on so much about a baby and about him being the one giving the sperm, because John couldn't have babies.

He was infertile.

John had cleared the room, his old room upstairs to make it into a nursery, but after that day, after Sherlock's words, in fact, he took the boxes with his old belongings back to that room and locked the door.

They never talked about it again.

Sherlock cries while he hugs John's old teddy bear, because John wanted to be a father so badly, he knew it was one of John's dreams and instead of walking away and finding another person who wanted to have children, and forgetting he had once met Sherlock Holmes, John continued standing behind him, he continued sleeping beside him every night and he continued cooking for him and washing his clothes.

He now wishes he could go back in time and help John to make his dream come true.

However, there is nothing else. Nothing else, not a single photograph of John in his youth, no more warm and worn clothes, no more books, no more of John's handwriting, no personal journals, not even an I.D. John took everything away from Baker Street, everything that could help Sherlock remember him and their moments together, and this is killing Sherlock. It kills him not being able to remember and not being able to find something to make his mind work and recover those files with John's name on them.

If John wanted Sherlock to forget him and made his heart ache with pain, he is succeeding extraordinarily.

* * *

A few weeks have passed since the day Sherlock broke into John's old room. He had taken everything downstairs and had put John's clothes back into their wardrobe in their room. He did not wash anything, he wanted them to have John's scent so he mixed some of John's jumpers between his designer shirts and trousers. All those pictures hanging on the wall are now next to Sherlock's side of the bed, on his bedside table, on his desk in the sitting room, or on the counter, they are everywhere. Sherlock does not really care if most of those pictures do not have John on them, but he likes to have them close, because his John took them all.

John's tools such as his perfume, his shampoo, his toothpaste and his toothbrush are now in his bathroom.

And John's old teddy bear lies next to Sherlock every night.

Sherlock wants all of John's possessions to be close to him so he can think, can imagine, he is still there but that he is on some holiday, or maybe that the clinic where he worked needs him 24/7 now.

And in all this time, all these past months, no one has called him. No one has texted him. Not even Lestrade, not even Victor. He thinks John had taken his existence when he died. He sometimes thinks he's dead, as dead as John is, but he is a ghost walking around the world and no one can see him.

Until one day Lestrade appears.

The silver haired man hands him a folder full of photographs of a recent crime scene and he explains that no one can solve it.

"Why come to me?"

The D.I. sighs quietly and closes his eyes. He can see pictures everywhere he looks, the flat is a mess, it is dusty and Sherlock left alone, is a mess from head to toes. His grey eyes that once were defiant, powerful and full of life now look lost, lifeless and sad.

Lestrade has been thinking about this for a very long time. Since the day Mycroft told him the news, he has not contacted Sherlock. He only kept working and tore his hair out trying to solve all the cases that came in since then without involving the consulting detective. But the older Holmes has asked him to make an effort, because it was one of John's last wishes: Sherlock needed to work because if not, they knew someday they would find his dead body. His mind was a very powerful weapon and if you do not know how to use it, you can kill yourself. And they knew Sherlock was close to losing control over his own mind.

"Because I need you to solve this case."

"Did John ask for me to keep working?"

Lestrade nods, tiredly. "Yes."

Sherlock stands up and places John's letter in his breast pocket before leaving. He needs John to be close to him.

* * *

Everything changes when he sees a dead body. The crime scene looks more like a slaughter, and the white walls of the room are painted with red blood. The man lying in the middle of the room floor has been tortured to death. He is blonde, close to his fifties.

He looks like John.

"What can you see?" asks Lestrade.

The forensics are outside and only the two of them are in there.

"Can you give me... a few minutes, please?"

Lestrade raises an eyebrow and nods. This is the first time he had heard Sherlock Holmes asking politely and saying please. And certainly, this is the first time Sherlock needs time.

The D.I. looks at his watch. It took Sherlock more than one hour to finally deduce something about the dead body, and an entire night until they finally have the case wrapped.

Sherlock asks for a lift and Lestrade nods.

"Have you been there?"

"Where?"

"John's grave."

Lestrade only nods because he can feel those bloodshot eyes on him. The silence in the car is thick and the D.I. of Scotland Yard can't hate Sherlock. It is not him, he's known him for ages. He is not the one in charge of Sherlock Holmes' judgment. No one will judge his actions but God.

He admits he has been there.

"What does it look like?"

Greg can't stop feeling amazed at Sherlock's new soft tone of voice. The man has changed, it looks like the old Sherlock Holmes everyone knew had died and a new Sherlock Holmes is replacing him. This new Sherlock does not fit into the place the old one has left.

Lestrade sees what John meant to Sherlock.

"It is a very lovely place, peaceful, calm. I imagine it is as John would have wanted it to be."

It was very early in the morning, the sun had just appeared on the sky when Sherlock asks Lestrade if he can take him there.

Lestrade agrees.

* * *

As soon as he sees the open gates, Sherlock quickens his step. He is finally there, he is so close it hurts him. Despite the fact he knows nothing of John is under that grave, he knows John is there, and that John will listen to him and to his words.

His grey eyes admire how beautiful the place is. The grass is soft and the trees and flower beds look as if someone has made a real effort with them. He has to walk for a couple of minutes to finally reach the place he wants to see. The sun is shining, strongly despite the fact that its winter and Sherlock feels a warm breeze through his dark curls. Sherlock can't wait, he really can't. He is finally going to be close to John, more close than he has been in the last couple of months.

All the words, all those unspoken words and promises, regrets, his own sins, he has them all in his head, and he is going to say everything. Sherlock thinks he is going to clean his soul and finally find a way to atone himself. His own sins and actions are too many to count and being too many makes him a sinner. A walking sinner who needs to atone not only his sins but himself. Every cell of his body, every pint of blood inside his body and even his own, poisonous heart need atonement and forgiveness.

But his hopes suddenly vanish in the air when he sees a woman standing in front of John's grave. She's blonde, she's wearing colorful scrubs and John's stethoscope round her neck. She is crying and she can't stop saying how much she misses him and his laughter and smiles. She finally says how much she loves him. Sherlock is a few meters away from her and he can hear her crying and her soft and tender voice. He can feel the feelings hidden in her voice.

And Sherlock's heart aches in pain.

* * *

_Atonement is not easy to find,_

_Your sins are too many to count!_

_The way is too long,_

_I may help you to find the way out._

_._

_Life is a beautiful gift,_

_And I am not a resentful soul,_

_You do not need to fear me,_

_As I once feared you._

_._

_I will not hit you,_

_I will not punish you,_

_I am only here to say,_

_You might not find me in the other way._


	4. Hamish

**CHAPTER IV:**

**HAMISH**

As soon as he sees the open gates, Sherlock quickens his step. He is finally there; he is so close it hurts him. Despite the fact he knows nothing of John is under that grave, he knows John is there, and that John will listen to him and to his words.

His grey eyes admire how beautiful the place is. The grass is soft and the trees and flower beds look as if someone has made a real effort with them. He has to walk for a couple of minutes to finally reach the place he wants to see. The sun is shining, strongly despite the fact that its winter and Sherlock feels a warm breeze through his dark curls. Sherlock can't wait, he really can't. He is finally going to be close to John, more close than he has been in the last couple of months.

All the words, all those unspoken words and promises, regrets, his own sins, he has them all in his head, and he is going to say everything. Sherlock thinks he is going to clean his soul and finally find a way to atone himself. His own sins and actions are too many to count and being too many makes him a sinner. A walking sinner, who needs to atone not only for his sins but for himself. Every cell of his body, every pint of blood inside his body and even his own, poisonous heart need atonement and forgiveness.

But his hopes suddenly vanish in the air when he sees a woman standing in front of John's grave. She's blonde, she's wearing colorful scrubs and John's stethoscope round her neck. She is crying and she can't stop saying how much she misses him and his laughter and smiles. She finally says how much she loves him. Sherlock is a few meters away from her and he can hear her crying and her soft and tender voice. He can feel the feelings hidden in her voice.

And Sherlock's heart aches in pain.

Sherlock runs, he runs and escapes away from that place as soon as his eyes meet those blue ones, looking into him, burning his skin and even his soul, if he ever had one. Cold tears are falling freely from his bloodshot eyes and he steps backwards, he can't even believe what he is seeing, and he can't even say a word. Sherlock's throat goes dry, he suddenly feels sick and a cold breeze taunts him and his neck. He runs a hand over his eyes, and he looks again, and _he's_ there. _His_ blue eyes are burning his skin and all Sherlock can see is light, warmth and a strangely scary sensation of peace.

Sherlock is fearful because next to the grey stone and in front of him and that blonde woman is John Watson.

_John_, that's not John. John can't be there. John's is dead. Who's that man? And who's that woman who is standing in front of that cold stone? She does not notice him, and it looks like she's not noticing John either. Sherlock is the only one who can see him and John smiles. The tall man feels panic and he steps backwards. He backs away and runs. Sherlock runs and runs until he reaches the gates again. A tiny little glimpse of a grey stone with John's name engraved on it and his entire world is falling. His entire world is being smashed into countless pieces and he is falling into darkness.

Will he ever be able to see the light again?

He never turns back to see John again, but seeing him for mere seconds is enough to create fear and apprehension. Sherlock fears - and he fears John. _His_ John was alive, smiling at him with those blue – and also accusing - eyes. His military stance was strong and his semblance was... Sherlock, runs. He runs for his own life because if he turns and sees John again, he is sure he will die.

Sherlock Holmes had spent the last few months thinking how peaceful and calming it was going to be to feel himself in the presence of John Watson again. He had even made his own plans to meet him again, because Sherlock is convinced he is going to see John again someday. But in this world, in the world in between, they have switched places and now it's _Sherlock_ that fears _John_. Now Sherlock can't bear to look into those ghostly blue and accusing eyes and now _he_ is the one begging for mercy. The day John died, Sherlock had taken him violently by the collar of his shirt and raised a fist in the air, preparing to beat John into a bloody pulp if that helped to calm his temper and his delusions. And John, silently crying, had begged for mercy.

Now Sherlock looks into those eyes and instead of begging for mercy, he fears. And John, instead of providing that mercy, creates uncertainty in Sherlock's world.

Let's see what happens now.

* * *

Mycroft asks why he had to run away and Sherlock keeps his eyes on the floor. His position and his body gestures have changed and now they reflect the man he is, the man he has been reduced to. His long hands are over his lap, and his palms are facing the ceiling. His strong and bony shoulders are curled and his head is not straight anymore. His spine is curved, his legs are not crossed but loose and his dark curls are covering those lifeless eyes. A complete contrast to the old Sherlock - he can't bear to look straight ahead, and his alien eyes are now used to looking at the floor. Is he ashamed? Maybe.

"Who is she?"

The older brother sighs and lets Mary Morstan's story flow freely from his lips; he doesn't even need to ask Sherlock who he is referring to.

"Mary Morstan, thirty, single. She's a children's trained nurse who actually works at the clinic where John used to work. She was John's right hand, if you must know."

"Was she John's lover?"

Mycroft shakes his head, he can't even believe Sherlock is asking him that question. He can't even believe his brother thinks John could have been an unfaithful man, when it was quite the contrary.

"If you think John Watson was made of the same material as you, you are terribly wrong."

"Why is she visiting John's grave?" His throat goes dry and his voice is broken, a mere whisper when he mentions John and his grave.

"Do you care?"

"He is my husband!"

The older brother sighs quietly at his little brother's hiss and softly responds. "He _was_, Sherlock. No more present tense for you. John Watson was your civil partner under the laws of this country, but he was not your husband in practice. Well, he _was_, the one who was not meeting his marital responsibilities was _you_,"

Sherlock does not say anything and Mycroft continues.

"Many people loved John in their own way, and Miss Morstan certainly practices a love which reaches the boundaries of their friendship. If you are asking whether she ever tried to make John walk out of you, then you are wrong. And in the hypothetical sense, I think it is time for you to realize John would have _never _have left you for someone else."

Mycroft glances around 221B Baker Street. He sees John everywhere. Every single place in the flat has something of John, a picture, a jumper, a t-shirt, he can even smell John's cologne on the air. And Baker Street has become a sanctuary, and Sherlock is now his devoted apostle. It is scary to see Sherlock now dressed in dark clothes, with lifeless bloodshot eyes, barely visible in the minimal light in the flat. It looked like the sun hadn't been invited inside for a very long time. He once told to himself John had taken his brother with him when he died. In the process, he had taken Sherlock's soul and left a walking dead body. But now he agrees that John had not only taken Sherlock's soul but his light, his air, his hopes. John was not being mean; maybe he was only doing the just thing.

"He left me."

Before he can walk off, Sherlock grabs his arm.

"I can't find anything. He took everything away from here and I need to know. I need to know what I can't remember, _please_ Mycroft."

Sherlock begs again and Mycroft can't stand it. Mycroft always thought he would never live long enough to see his little brother begging, his little brother on his knees asking for help and aid. It took fifty years of his life to finally see this. And today, he desperately wishes he didn't have to witness this scene; Sherlock is on the floor, crying and begging. And inwardly Mycroft asks John if he is aware of what his death has caused.

"You won't find anything because he sold it. John sold his furniture, his best clothes, his best books and everything he owned and everything that could be sold to give him enough money. And don't you _dare_ think he was being selfish because he didn't want you to have those things. He did it for _them_, because they were the only ones who cared."

"Who are they?" asked Sherlock, genuinely worried, concerned.

"Why don't you visit the paediatric clinic near Bart's?"

Mycroft Holmes removes his brother's hand from his arm and turns to face the door, ready to go.

"After that, you could visit John's grave, I'm sure no one will be there in a few hours," Mycroft turns but stops his steps and finally murmurs something without looking at his brother. "He never left you, Sherlock. How could he leave you when you weren't there anymore?"

Sherlock sees his brother leaving and sinks once again into his own despair.

* * *

"Sir, can I help you?"

A young woman in her early twenties asks as soon as Sherlock approaches the reception. His grey eyes find a picture of a smiling John Watson on the desk and he frowns. It takes him long seconds to realise that that man is his John and he is smiling. He has a red and plastic fake nose, the ones clowns wear, and his stethoscope round his pale neck. He looks very happy.

"Sir? Sir, are you OK?"

Sherlock hesitates for a moment "I... Can I talk to the doctor in charge of the staff, please?"

"Have you got an appointment?"

"No, but I need- I need to have a word about Doctor John Watson."

He sees that as soon as he mentions John's name the girl sighs, sadly. The nurses working and walking past the reception stop to listen and some others raise their heads to see him. Sherlock feels like the world has stopped moving and the people are staring at him, accusing him with their eyes, but they are not. They are simply looking at him because no one in months has come to ask for John. Everyone thought he was a solitary man without family, and here is a man asking for him.

"Your name is?"

"Sherlock Holmes."

She makes a phone call and after a few seconds, she assures him that the Doctor in charge will see him as soon as she can leave her patients.

Sherlock walks along the corridors of the clinic where John used to work and he sees nurses running from one place to another. The waiting room is an example, a picture of something Sherlock knows he will never be part of - he will never be there. It is full of mothers, fathers, waiting with their children. Some of them are crying, some are just on the floor, playing or reading books. He sits on the only chair available and waits.

Whilst he is waiting, Sherlock looks at the place with his greyish eyes and wonders what effect John had had on this place and what effect it had had on him. It looks peaceful even when it is full of children playing and crying. The walls are delicately painted with different colours, there is a painted rainbow as well and some posters with colorful images, with animals, different landscapes and there's one with the solar system. He remembers John always complained of his lack of knowledge about the solar system-

"Sir, Dr. Sawyer is waiting for you, please follow me."

Sherlock nods at the young receptionist and follows her. His thoughts about the doctor's name and how familiar it is are interrupted by the white corridors that look endless, and more nurses running or walking with children on wheelchairs and he finally meets Dr. Sawyer. He knew that name sounded familiar to him and he now knows why. John's old girlfriend, Sarah Sawyer is standing in front of him, wearing a white lab coat and a very surprised expression. She certainly has gotten old now, she does not have long hair as he remembers; she wears it short. She also has wrinkles round her green eyes and has a pair of reading glasses propped on her head.

"I wasn't expecting to see you here."

The doctor's voice is a mere whisper when she asks him to sit in the chair opposite her. Sarah offers him tea, coffee or water and Sherlock only shakes his head. He sees that when he asks about John's work there, Sarah doesn't look surprised at all.

"John worked here as a pediatrician."

Sherlock feels the coldness in her voice and he does not blame her. John had finished their romantic relationship because of him. But maybe Sarah is not resentful because of that but because she's facing John Watson's killer. Does she know?

"He was a GP -"

"A couple of years ago we had staff shortages and I needed someone to cover one of the pediatrician's shifts for two days. Dr. Hopkins was ill and the only one left, well... the only one who was kind and patient enough with children was John. It took me a good few hours to convince him. The children loved him, Sherlock," Sarah blinked quickly when she felt tears coming into her eyes and Sherlock waited.

Memories started to come and Sarah continued.

"After that week, Mike and I pulled some strings and we got him a place to study at Bart's, and he continued working here, assisting Dr. Hopkins with some easy patients while he was studying Pediatric Medicine. He became the Doctor in charge of the pediatric wing at this clinic a few months before... before his death."

"He never told me -"

Sarah cut him off, "Or maybe you never listened."

Sherlock swallowed hard.

"I did not come here to -"

"I know why you came here," Sarah cut him off. "Did you see the waiting room, the posters, the toys the children are playing with? The wheelchairs outside of this office? The waiting room was painted and all of that was bought thanks to John's savings. Your brother came here with a cheque with John's signature. He left everything he owned to his patients, his children."

Sarah waits for Sherlock to say something, but he keeps still in his chair in front of her. It has been years since she last saw him, and John never talked about him. He stopped talking about him years ago. John had still worn that gold ring that she had once wished he would wear for her, but he was wearing it because he belonged to Sherlock. Sarah had eventually gotten over it, and had got married to a very lovely and kind man years ago. John had once wished her the best of luck and when she tried to say the same, he told her he was only going to accept her wishes if she really meant them. And she did.

Now Sarah wonders if a cold wind had blown away those wishes.

"In the last two years before his death, he kept coming here even when it was his holiday. He came here, he helped us with some patients or sometimes he would stay with the kids who are hospitalized, he would read them stories, or sometimes he would even help the nurses. All those children you saw here, all of them were his patients. John could work for twelve hours non-stop for them. John remembered their names and everything about them. John loved them and they loved him." Sara said calmly, but her voice was firm.

Sherlock breathes out sharply and looks at Sarah. "Can I see his office?"

Sarah nods and a couple of seconds later, they are both facing John's old office. It is locked, and it looks like no one has come in since his death, many months ago. The blonde woman opens the curtains and Sherlock's eyes meet John's world, the very same world he had ignored for years.

The office is a part of John's heart and a part of John's world. Sherlock's heart aches when he thinks that John was here, all the time he ignored him. And every time he ripped his heart out, John would go to his office and fix children and they would fix and fill John's heart again, only for it to be ripped apart once more by Sherlock later.

It hurts to be there, because it is the place in which John was free to live and breathe and even fix himself.

"No one wants to take this office, all the doctors prefer to work in smaller places rather than... being here," Sarah explains as she sees Sherlock walking round the dirty desk. "One of the nurses boxed John's things for your brother."

"I know."

Sherlock's grey eyes meet a plate in which he deduces John used to put those lollipops he always bought. And there is another poster of the solar system. Those are the only two things left in that office apart from the desk. The floor is dusty. It looks like the sunlight has come into the office for the first time in months.

"Can I take the poster?" he almost begs and Sarah nods.

What else she can do? Sarah has witnessed most of John's life. She had seen the love hidden within his blue eyes, then the blossoming of happiness and finally, John's life shriveling. The remains, a lifeless man in black, carrying a dead man on his back.

Sherlock says thanks and Sarah only nods. They do not spoke one more word, they only exchange a few looks and Sherlock walks away from the clinic with a strange pain in his chest, and a new file in his head. Little by little, Sherlock fills a small folder with things about John. He tries to build his own John inside his mind and he swears he will not forget him again, that he will not delete that folder again.

Sherlock says to himself he will not forget John Watson, he will not make the same mistake again.

_Sometimes you have to make the same mistake more than once or twice to finally learn the lesson._

Has Sherlock learned the lesson? The detective thinks he has, but the path is still too long, and he has not completed the half of it yet. And that's why he raises a hand in the air and hails a cab. The file he is filling is not complete yet, that's why he needs to go and face John's grave.

* * *

Sherlock arrives at those gates again. They are open, inviting him to come in, to finally face John and that cold stone, that grave. He does not hurry his steps. Sherlock walks slowly and he does it while thinking about what he has to say. He is preparing himself mentally for what he is about to see because maybe, just maybe, he will see him again.

One, one step.

Two, two steps.

Three, three steps.

He thinks _'John, will I see you again?'_

Sherlock counts.

Four.

Five.

Six.

Seven, he stops.

The sun is still shining. And he doesn't understand how he got there so quickly, because he is already facing John's grave. Sherlock is finally standing in front of his husband's grave and he thinks he can't breathe. His greyish eyes are now full of tears and he does not care. He lets them flow freely down his cheeks and he sobs. All those emotions, all those feelings and those dreams he has had about this moment are now forgotten. His deductive skills, his clever mind and his magnificent brain disappear and the world is only about John and him. No one else, nothing else. Everything is about John and himself now.

He never imagined being there, facing John's grave. This was not supposed to be happening. The one in constant danger was Sherlock, not John. The one staying in the shadows, opposite to the side of the angels was Sherlock, not John. The one being mean, dark and poisonous was Sherlock, not John. The one being unfaithful, dishonest and stupid was Sherlock, not John. The one looking for fun in all the wrong places was Sherlock, not John. And finally, Sherlock agrees, the one who should be buried six feet under is _him_ and not _John_.

Around that cold stone with his name engraved on it, Sherlock sees colorful drawings, letters, flowers, a lollipop, and endless notes glued to the stone.

_'I miss you Dr. Watson' _

_'Thanks for fixing my arm, Dr. Watson, I love you."_

_'When I grow up I wanna be like you.'_

_'You were the bettest, I miss you doctor watson'_

It's endless. The pain is endless. Everything is endless. The way is too long and Sherlock needs John to help him-

"Hi."

Sherlock turns to face a little boy standing behind him. He stands up and wipes away his tears. The boy doesn't seem to care and offers his hand to the detective.

"Hello," responds the detective.

Sherlock takes a closer look at the boy. He has dark and curly hair. His eyes are blue and he's extremely pale. He can tell the boy is ill, seriously ill. His eyes are tired and there are marks on his thin arms, injection marks. He is wearing second hand clothes and his gaze is lost. His eyes are on the stone.

God help him, because Sherlock swears this kid could be their son. His and John's son. This little boy looks like a mix of their genetics, and if someone had invented a machine able to mix to different sperm and then make a baby, this boy is a product of it. He has dark and curly hair like him, his blue eyes and his nose look like John's and he has their pale skin.

"I'm Hamish."

The detective thinks he might die right now. All those feelings he had experienced when he opened John's fourth box and when he found the teddy bear come now to sink into his chest. John wanted to have a boy, and he wanted to name him Hamish. And this boy, this little boy that looks a lot like them, like Sherlock and John is standing by his side, looking at John's grave as if he were looking at his father's.

"Are you a friend of Doctor Watson?"

Sherlock nods, he can only nod because that's all he's capable of right now.

"I was his friend too. Do you think Doctor Watson is in heaven now?" the boy asks with a frown and genuine curiosity.

Sherlock can only respond with what he thinks the boy wants to hear, but to be honest, he also believes John is in heaven, where he deserves to be.

"I think he is."

"Good, cos I hope to go there soon so I can see him again,"

Sherlock deduces something. "You are ill."

"Yeah. I've got cancer. Doctor Watson was gonna help me through chemotherapy but he died. He was the one who found out about it and he was helping me since then," replies Hamish.

Sherlock is completely fascinated by how this little boy, no more than ten years, can describe and explain his illness, without hesitating, without doubting.

"When did you meet him?"

Hamish looks up to the blue sky, trying to remember and answers, "Ages ago. He came with the doctors the day of our examination and we met. And every time the nuns said we needed to see doctors, he would come and examine me again and we got to be friends."

"Nuns?"

Hamish nods. "I used to live in an orphanage but when Doctor Watson found I had cancer he told me I had to live at the clinic with other children like me. Did you know a doctor has to study his whole life? When we met, he said he was a doctor, but to help children he had to study again. I told him I wanted to be a doctor like him and he taught me how to use his stethoscope."

Sherlock does not say a word, but keeps looking at Hamish.

"I think I saw a picture of you on Doctor Watson's desk once. He said you were his very good friend,"

"He said so?" asks Sherlock with genuine curiosity.

"Yeah. He said you were his bestest friend ever."

Silence is the only thing filling the moment, the space in between and a warm breeze caress their faces.

"Do people miss John?" asks Sherlock.

Hamish nods sadly and adds, "The nurses and the other children miss him lots. You know, sometimes he came to our rooms to read us stories with Nurse Morstan. They were really nice to all of us."

"Who is Nurse Morstan?"

"She's the children's nurse. Doctor Watson said she was the bestest nurse,"

"Is she?"

"Yeah! Nurse Morstan always helped Doctor Watson with the kids and she made tea for him too. She makes the best food for us too."

Sherlock only nods. The tears have stopped now.

"Are you alone here?"

"No. A nun is waiting outside. She can't come cos she says it's too sad. It's sad for me too, but I really miss Doctor Watson. And the new doctor says I need to wait and I'll be fine but I know I will die soon -"

"Aren't you afraid?"

"No, cos I know I'll see Doctor Watson. An' he was a very good person and he told me not to be afraid of anything."

"Hamish, what else can you tell me about John?" asks Sherlock, desperate to know more about the John he misses, about the John he forgot and about the John he had erased from his hard-drive.

The boy looks at him for a moment and then takes a letter out of his jeans pocket and places it close to the cold stone.

"Did you know his second name was Hamish too?"

"Yes, I know."

"He told me he wanted to have a son an' name him Hamish like me but his wife couldn't have babies."

Tears start to flow from Sherlock's eyes again, but Hamish keeps his gaze on the grass.

"Did you know Doctor Watson had a wife?" asks Hamish with the genuine curiosity of a little boy and Sherlock has to fight heavy tears back.

"No, I didn't. Did he tell you about her?"

"He had a ring like yours," says Hamish pointing at Sherlock's gold ring. "Doctor Watson said his wife was a scientist that worked with a microscope doing experiments."

"You knew her?"

Hamish shakes his head. "No, but Doctor Watson said she was tall and that she had dark curls and grey eyes like a cloudy sky... yeah, I think he said something like that."

Sherlock can't contain the tears and he lets them flow down his cheeks.

"Did John love her?"

"I think he did," Hamish looks at him and changes the subject "He also told us stories about a super detective who helped the police to solve mysteries and he could run, jump and fly! And he could catch all the bad criminals of the city."

"Really?"

"Yes! I can't remember the detective's name... it was a weird name like Sherla... -"

"Sherlock?"

"Yes! He told you those stories too?"

Sherlock nods "Yes. But he never told me what that detective looked like, did he tell you, Hamish?"

"He said he was tall, very tall and that he wore a coat that protected him from the criminals," Hamish looks at him. "Like yours! And you are tall too!"

Sherlock smiles at Hamish and lets a hand caress the little boy's soft curls. His hands encounter some loose hairs.

"Sorry -"

"It's OK. Doctor Watson told me I was gonna lose my hair soon."

"Did someone tell you why John died?"

"A doctor told me he died cos his heart was tired and it stopped beating. I think he was sad cos he had red eyes and sometimes he cried when no one was looking. I miss him a lot."

Hamish starts crying silently and Sherlock kneels to be close to him. A shy hand come out to hug the little boy's shoulders and Hamish buries his head in Sherlock's chest. They both cry until Hamish breaks the hug.

"Sir, do you think Doctor Watson is watching us?"

"Yes, I think he is," admits Sherlock. His left hand caresses the boy's face and Hamish smiles.

Little Hamish plants a soft kiss on the detective cheek and smiles again.

"I need to go. I'll see you soon. Bye sir!"

"Bye, Hamish."

Sherlock turns to see Hamish walking among the trees and flowers when he feels a cold breeze round his neck and a very familiar voice.

"I see you've met Hamish,"

He turns and he's there. John is there, standing close to his grave and in front of him, smiling. He is wearing a pair of worn jeans and a green jacket. The blue sky has suddenly become grey and dangerous clouds are over them. The wind is not warm anymore, it's cold. And no matter how many times Sherlock rubs his eyes with the back of his hands, John is still standing in front of him.

And Sherlock swears he can feel John breathing and John's heart beating inside his ribcage. He thought this was going to be heaven. He thought seeing John again would help him finally feel that peace he has been craving for so long. However, it's the exact opposite.

Sherlock is afraid.

And John smiles.

"Took you time to finally come and visit."

* * *

_This is the story of a strange creature with four legs, four arms and a single head with two faces. Two of the four arms were shorter, two of the four legs were weaker and one of the two faces expressed the kindness and tenderness of that strange creature. The other two arms left were longer and the other two legs left were stronger. The other face expressed the darkness and cruelty of that strange creature._

_A clever power and unknown deity looked at this creature and decided to split them. The result was two very different men that despite having two separate and different minds and hearts, were strangely destined to be together for the rest of their lives._

_The deity feared one of them, the one who was taller and stronger than the other one. That one had a very dangerous mind and a heart that matched that clever brain. The deity knew he was meant to destroy his other half because of an unknown reason, it was written in their destiny. So when the deity sent them down to the world, he tried to keep them away from each other. However, their hearts and their destinies were stronger and they finally met again. They became one again and it was too late when the deity saw one of them coming back to his world._

_Sherlock and John were one then split in half for their own good and without knowing, they met again. The results were disastrous for both, because the stronger one killed the weaker without thinking twice. John only wanted to help Sherlock, he only wanted him to be happy and free. But Sherlock locked John into a cage without a way out. The only way John found his freedom was in killing himself. And he did it by giving Sherlock a gun and letting him use it against his own chest._

_Who is the man with the key? Because the man with the key is the man with the power to grant forgiveness and atonement. He is the King, and honey, you should see him in a crown. _

_You should also see his most unfaithful subject on his knees, asking for a second chance._

_John is the jury, the judge, the case on the table. Sherlock is just the accused._

_God help him._


	5. No

**Author's Note:  
Thanks to Deb for being my amazing beta. Also, thanks for the feedback, keep those lovely reviews coming! And please, note the new cover of this fic, I think it suits this chapter perfectly.**

* * *

**CHAPTER V:**

**NO  
**

"I see you've met Hamish,"

Sherlock turns and he's there. John is there, standing close to his grave and in front of him, smiling. He is wearing a pair of worn jeans and a green jacket. The blue sky has suddenly become grey, and dangerous clouds are over them. The wind is not warm anymore, it's cold. And no matter how many times Sherlock rubs his eyes with the back of his hand, John is still standing in front of him.

And Sherlock swears he can feel John breathing and John's heart beating inside his ribcage. He thought this was going to be heaven. He thought seeing John again would help him finally feel that peace he has been craving for so long. However, it's the exact opposite.

Sherlock is afraid.

And John smiles.

"Took you time to finally come and visit."

Who's begging for mercy now?

"What? Aren't you going to say anything? I know you have questions, and you also have a speech prepared. Come on, I'm here to listen," says John, still looking at Sherlock with his deep blue eyes, with those deep blue eyes Sherlock was not able to remember.

Sherlock can't talk. Sherlock can only watch, observe John - and he wants to focus, he wants to concentrate and deduce something about this John standing in front of him. But Sherlock's mind can't come up with anything. There is nothing Sherlock can look at to work out something. The man standing in front of him, _this_ John, has erased everything from him. There's nothing Sherlock can use to make any deductions.

Desperate. Sherlock feels desperate.

"Has that awful tea of yours made you mute?" mocks John as he kneels to take a look at all the things glued to his gravestone.

Sherlock steps back and looks at his husband. John doesn't have that white hair anymore, and the wrinkles in his face are not deep. John looks so young, so alive, so healthy. John looks like the man Sherlock can't remember, and Sherlock wants to pinch himself to find out if he is dreaming or not.

"You're not dreaming, Sherlock," says John, smelling the violet flowers on his grave. "Molly brings flowers every time she comes. You know, I used to get her these same flowers sometimes. And when I couldn't face you and your frightening self, I used to ask her out. I miss those days; we had lots of fun together. Molly _is_ a - sorry – _was_ - I forget sometimes I'm dead - Molly was a very good friend."

Seeing John there, so alive, so close to him makes Sherlock's heart ache inside his chest. Sherlock wants to speak, he wants to ask questions and he wants to know so many things he can't - he's too much of a coward to do it. However, Sherlock risks his own luck.

Oh, Sherlock.

"John... Are you alive?"

"What?" asks John, turning his head to face Sherlock.

The dead man looks at Sherlock Holmes and he can't help but frown. Was this Sherlock Holmes? The Sherlock Holmes who lay on the bed next to him that night when he died? This Sherlock is a mess. His hair is long, it's almost covering his now sad, tired and bloodshot eyes and his cheekbones have traces of tears. Sherlock's thinner than John remembered, and he is wearing his cologne, John's favourite scent. This Sherlock looks like an ordinary man, he is nothing more than an ordinary man. Everything that was once exciting and strange in him is now gone. Now John is facing a man, a helpless and hopeless man looking for something John knows he can't grant him.

"Is this a game you're playing to make me learn a lesson?"

John closes his eyes slowly; he processes the question and sighs.

Then, John smiles.

This is macabre, Sherlock thinks.

This is me, John thinks.

"I didn't remember you being that stupid," says John while he smiles at the notes and drawings of his patients. "I have been here a few times, I was expecting you to come. It's going to be a year tomorrow, you know. Well, what am I asking? Of course you _don't_ know."

"I know -"

"No, you _didn't_ know. Stop lying!" hisses John angrily and Sherlock catches his own breath.

There is an awful, painful silence during which neither of them seems to be able to talk. The clouds are still in the sky, making it look dark and scary. The sun doesn't shine anymore. The soft wind is cold, not warm. The trees are losing their leaves and the grass suddenly looks like it is losing its life. Everyone would say the summer is coming to an end, but it's blossoming. Here the summer has disappeared and it's now locked outside the gates of his territory, John's territory. And Sherlock's playing the visitor.

God help him.

"Why, John?" asks Sherlock, almost pleading for an answer. He tries to make his voice sound firm, but he can only sound terrified and almost afraid to hear the answer. The dead man does not know if he should reply or not. Seeing Sherlock, the poor man afraid makes him feel superior and high. John feels bigger in comparison to Sherlock. And he can't believe he had once been in Sherlock Holmes' shadow.

Look at Sherlock now - he's the shadow of a dead man.

John stares at him for a moment, and Sherlock wonders if the man can read his mind.

"Why _what_?" asks John, and Sherlock doesn't know what to say.

"You know what I'm asking."

John chuckles and Sherlock frowns. This is not supposed to be happening. _His_ John would be close to him, hugging him, telling him everything was OK, that he was forgiven. _His _John should have been more caring, more tender and soft, as Sherlock can just about remember. But _this_ John... this John the exact opposite. This John looks cold, frightening and big.

Sherlock is afraid of this John.

"No, I don't know. Tell me, please," replies John.

Another silence. Sherlock lets a hand run over those dark curls covering his eyes and looks at John. Somehow, Sherlock manages to raise his chin, unsuccessfully trying to hide how little a man he is now. Sherlock knows he has lost all the pride he once had, and now he is nothing but a mess of lost hopes.

But Sherlock finally asks.

"Why you left me?"

John stands up and stops in front of Sherlock. "I never left you. Of the two of us, who was the first to leave? Have you ever asked yourself that?"

John's voice is soft, but it is also firm. There is no hesitation, no doubts, John is firm. But Sherlock can't perceive any venom; not a hint of resentment from John. And this John looks so peaceful, so calm and so healthy. The exact opposite of the John that left many months ago. Will _this_ John stay here, with me? Will this John forgive me? Will this John take me away with him? Will this John allow me to say how much I love him and how much I need him? Sherlock wonders and John waits. John waits for the famous Mr. Punchline who once would outlive God only to have the last word.

What Sherlock does not know about this John is that he can't read his mind. This John can't possibly know what he wants. However, what Sherlock also ignores is that _this _John can look into his eyes and therefore, into his soul. This John can sense everything and he can also forgive everything.

Almost everything.

Sherlock opens his mouth to say something, but he can't get the words out, and John doesn't say anything.

I don't really know what frightens Sherlock the most - John's silence or John's presence. Maybe both.

John crouches down again, and reads the letter of his patients silently, grinning at every honest word coming from the children, _his_ children. John also takes Hamish's letter and reads it. He lets out a heavy sigh and shakes his head.

"Hamish is going to die soon. I wish I could be with him now that he's suffering alone. Did you like him? He's very clever. I think he's as clever as the son or daughter we could have had. God, I love that kid. I think he's the child I always wanted us to have."

Sherlock tilts his head to one side and he sobs heavily. John looks at his own grave and then at Sherlock. Unlike Sherlock, he's not crying. John is only lamenting.

"I never imagined this," says John while he places the letters back in their original place. "Have you? Have you ever imagined visiting my grave?"

"John, come back to me. _Please_, come back."

The dead man stands up and shakes the dust off his worn jeans. For a moment, Sherlock swears John is going to come close to him; he thinks John will let him touch his soft skin and kiss his lips again. But John stays away, his body language shows how much he still fears Sherlock, keeping himself meters away from that dark man. This hurts him, this hurts Sherlock and he finds himself unable to walk, unable to move and unable to reach out John's hand to entwine their fingers, to feel his softness and warmth again.

"Why do you want me back? You're fine without me."

"I am not! I miss you, I need you! I can't conceive of a life without you, John. I can't do this anymore -"

"How does it feel?" asks John, and he turns to face Sherlock.

The detective is afraid, and John smiles.

Who's begging for mercy now?

Sherlock fears John, because _this_ John looks powerful. This John looks almost capable of anything and Sherlock fears revenge. He fears for his own wellbeing, as John once feared for his. Suddenly, it's as if they have switched places. And today, Sherlock feels as if he's facing a judge and a jury with a murder charge on him. And he has John Watson's blood on his hands. The sentence is inevitable. Inevitable when the only one accused is Sherlock Holmes, and the jury deciding his destiny is John Watson.

John takes a step forward and Sherlock stumbles two steps backwards.

"How does it feel to be alone, to be forgotten, to be thrown away without hope? How does it feel to be sunk into endless darkness? How does it feel to be hopeless and helpless?" asks John, looking into Sherlock's lifeless eyes, without blinking and without hesitating for a moment.

A heavy tear falls from Sherlock's eye and John does not say or do anything.

Sherlock doesn't reply.

"How does it feel to have no one close enough to help you?"

Sherlock doesn't reply. And John goes further.

"How does it feel to be _me_?"

Sherlock still doesn't reply.

"Answer my question, Sherlock. How does it feel?"

Sherlock hesitates. "It hurts."

"Oh, does it hurt?" asks John, with sarcasm. "Well, I felt worse, I can tell you. Every day, every single day until my death, you stabbed and shot at my heart, every day you burned my skin, every day your silences stole my breath away. Every day, I felt like dying and do you think I could tell anyone? Do you think someone helped me?" asks John, still looking directly into the detective's eyes.

"I don't -"

"You don't what?"

"I don't remember, I -" admits Sherlock and John shakes his head.

"No wonder I imagined this. That clever and magnificent mind of yours should have deleted me from your perfect brain long time ago. As I wrote in my last letter, I couldn't remember when everything started, neither could you. But now I know. Do you want to hear it, Sherlock? Do you want me to tell you about that morning when you woke up and looked at me and decided you didn't love me anymore? Do you want me to tell you about the time you admitted you had stopped caring about me, about us? Do you want me to tell you how I found out about your exciting adventures in cheap hotels with unknown men? Do you -"

"Stop it!" begs Sherlock, but John continues.

John walks a step forward and Sherlock walks two steps backwards.

"Or do you want to know about me, about all the things you ignored? Do you want me to tell you about the nights I silently cried next to you? Do you want me to tell you about how I had to lie to myself, saying you loved me, that you were only confused? Do you -"

"Stop it, John please!" Sherlock begs, because that's the only thing he can do right now. But John is not going to be so easy on him, not today. If all the actions bring reactions in equal magnitude, but opposite in direction, Sherlock understands John now.

Sherlock's chest is aching and he feels as if his heart is being ripped into countless pieces. He feels as if John is taking his heart out of his chest and spitting on it. Sherlock feels his world coming to an end, and it _hurts_. The sensation burns his skin and his tears are heavy. He feels himself shaking and breathless. Sherlock feels as if he's going to die, but John shakes his head as if he has been reading his mind.

"No Sherlock. I wrote it, I wrote I wanted to say so many things, and now I am here I'll say them all and you're going to listen," he says, pointing at Sherlock with his index finger. "One morning you woke up and all of a sudden, you stopped talking. The morning of our anniversary, you said you had important things to do and you left. Then you ignored me and you rejected me when I touched you. You told me you were sick of me, that I wasn't sexually attractive, that I wasn't satisfying you anymore. You spat on my sister's grave when you told me she was dead and that it was the best for me. You called me stupid, you called me an idiot and you told everyone I was dead. You lied and lied until it finally became the truth. I'm _dead_ now. I'm as dead as you wanted me to be, as you once told me, remember? Can you remember when you told me you wished I was dead?"

John stops because he can feel himself beginning to cry. He had promised himself he was not going to cry; he was only going to listen and say all the things he had to say. But he can see he's doing exactly what Sherlock did before he died. And John doesn't want to be like Sherlock. He only wants to stop being a lonely soul.

The dead man came only to hear reasons and get answers. And Sherlock will have to fulfill his wishes.

"I'm sorry," murmurs Sherlock and John doesn't want to say any more. "I'm sorry. I never meant all of that. I - I blindfolded myself, I let my brain rule my heart. I was stupid, I thought I was weak. I thought you made me weak, but it was all the opposite, John. You made me stronger, you made me -"

John insists. "But how does it feel? How does it feel to be _me_?"

Sherlock blinks once or twice until he finally admits it. Sherlock finally admits it and his throat aches, his mouth is dry and he feels as if he can hardly speak. "I want to die, John. I want to die because I need you. I need you here, with me. I need us to be what we once were, what I can't remember."

John shakes his head. "You don't need me, Sherlock. You _don't_ need me anymore_._"

The dark haired man steps forward and John keeps his position next to his own grave. The way he's standing, clearly a military position, with his arms straight by his sides and his head and chin high. He looks proud. John Watson, a man who was once a Captain in the British Army, looks proud of himself while he sees the man who killed him being reduced to nothing, to a small and almost insignificant, hopeless man.

"I - I need you, please -"

John cuts Sherlock off. "I was like you, you know. I once wanted to kill myself because every day you ignored me; every single one of your silences was consuming me. I wanted to kill myself. I couldn't conceive of a life without you."

"_I _can't conceive of my life without _you_, John."

"Yes, you can. You have been preparing yourself for this moment, Sherlock. Don't you see it?"

Sherlock shakes his head.

"You were fine without me, or don't you remember? You ignored me for so long; you treated me like the shit you considered I was. Now tell me, if you could live without me when I was there, why do you say you need me now that I'm not here with you?" asks John, and Sherlock doesn't know what else he should say.

And he admits it.

"I don't know what else I can say, John. I need you because I'm going crazy and my life is a mess without you. I can't think, I can't see, I can't be without you. Without you, my life has no sense anymore."

John keeps his position and even though he doesn't show it, he can't understand Sherlock. John can't understand how his absence has made Sherlock Holmes such a stupid man. But, what else can be expected? John died fearing a dark and frightening creature; he can't be expected to understand the small, pleading man who was hidden underneath that armor.

After all, it's not John's fault.

"You don't see it. You were fine without me, when I was there, when I was the puppet you were able to play with whenever you wanted to do so. You pulled the strings and now I'm not here - now you can't play with me - that's when you want me. You're like a little child who stops playing with his favourite toy and when mummy wants to store it away you want it back," explains John. "You don't know what you want."

And John doesn't know. John doesn't realise the weight his words have.

"I know what I want! And what I want is you, I need you. You were there for everyone but never for me!"

"Because you _never_ fucking wanted me, Sherlock!"

John hisses his reply, and Sherlock doesn't know what else do to or say to make himself clear. _This_ John is not _his_ John. This John is a fake copy, yes, that's what Sherlock thinks. His John was caring, tender, soft and understanding. This dark John is not his John. This John is a fake copy, sent by an unknown person to make him look like a fool.

Oh Sherlock.

"You're not John."

"What do you mean?" asks John with a frown.

Sherlock tries to calm himself and replies, "You're a copy. You're not _my_ John." He wipes his tears away. "_My_ John is different."

"Really? Tell me _how_, please."

Sherlock does not say a word and John chuckles. John knew it all along. Since the moment he appeared in front of the widower, John knows Sherlock had deleted him long time ago from his hard-drive and now he is trying to build an image of him again.

John laughs sarcastically, and for the first time he breaks that soldier position he has been keeping since he appeared in front of Sherlock. Tears are falling freely from Sherlock's sad eyes and his expression is nothing more than the one a child would have when someone took his candy and he wants it back.

Oh, Sherlock.

"See? You don't even remember me. You couldn't remember my voice, Sherlock. Tell me, can you differentiate me from the John you believe I am not? You can't because you deleted me."

Sherlock goes to his knees and decides to do the only thing he can.

"Please John, I'm begging you. Come back to me, please."

John looks at him, still standing in front of him. John realises that this is the first time he has ever seen Sherlock begging for mercy, begging to him. John also realises what his death, what his absence has done to the man he loves with all his heart. However, despite all the things Sherlock wants and begs for, John can't find a proper way to tell him the truth. But before he tries, they have things to clarify.

"Why did you hit me?"

Sherlock is not a fool. He knows what is John asking and it hurts him. It hurts him. It hurts him to remember he hit John's lifeless body until he convulsed. It hurts him to remember all the marks he left on John's lifeless body even when John had asked him not to do it. It hurts Sherlock and it breaks his heart to remember the unwanted pleasure he had felt while he was doing it, while he was hitting John with the bow of his now-forgotten violin.

It's several seconds before Sherlock can finally reply.

"I was insane, mad, crazy. I - I couldn't believe you left without saying... I couldn't believe you were dead."

John nods. "And tell me why you wanted to hit me, and don't you dare to tell me you don't know what I'm talking about, because you _do _know. You remember that day, after we came back from Scotland Yard, the same day I died, you wanted to beat me to a bloody pulp."

Sherlock looks into John's blue eyes and begs for mercy, silently. He is still on the ground and John is still looking at him, waiting for answers. Sherlock must face his sins now. They are both locked inside that cage that Sherlock once locked John in without a way out. John has the key, and Sherlock needs him to open the door. But before that, John wants to hear his defense.

There's no way to escape, Sherlock.

"I recall you grabbing me by my shirt, then you shoving me against the bookshelves and then hitting my head with that big book. I also recall your fist in the air, aimed like a gun at my face," says John with tears falling from his eyes. "I also remember silently begging you not to do it, just like you're now begging to me not to ask you this question."

Sherlock sobs heavily and noisily, losing all the strength he had left and all his hopes. Everything he had under his sleeve, like his last hopes, are now gone. There's no way he's going to escape from this. There's no way he's going to escape from John and from this trial in which all his sins are on the table.

There's no way he can avoid this question.

"I don't know," replies Sherlock, unsure.

"Yes you _do _know. You wanted to hurt me, you wanted to take it to the next level, didn't you?"

Sherlock nods, defeated. "Yes."

"Because?"

"Because I wanted you to walk away."

"Why?" demands John, titling his head down only to be closer to Sherlock, only to see his tears and his fears, all coming out of him.

"I don't know."

"Me neither," says John and offers his hand to Sherlock.

The detective takes it and shudders at the touch. John is extremely cold. Though his skin is soft, John is as cold as he was that morning that Sherlock found his dead body.

Oh, Sherlock.

"You still wear it?" asks John, pointing at Sherlock's ring.

The detective nods. "Yes. I always wear it. I can't be without it, John," he admits, even when he remembers how he used to remove it to claim his singleness to his lovers. Stupid, stupid Sherlock, stupid.

"You can't? Things have really changed since I left."

Sherlock sighs and looks at him. "John, please -"

"Why would I stop, Sherlock? Did _you _stop? Did you stop seeing those lovers of yours when we were together? Did you stop telling me those horrible things when I begged you to?"

John's sarcasm borders on the macabre and Sherlock is afraid again. The place looks dark and the clouds are not helping. John's eyes are strangely dark, and they are affecting Sherlock's sight – he can't bear to look at those eyes.

John takes advantage of Sherlock's sudden inability to talk, and continues judging his husband's deadly sins.

"You were so poisonous, so dark, so mean... why did you have to be like that, Sherlock? What did I do to you to deserve all your hate? What did I do wrong? What didn't I do? Why did you have to do all that to me?" asks John and his voice is now a mere whisper.

Sherlock can't reply.

John sobs. "I only wanted to make you happy, I wanted to give us a family, Sherlock. I couldn't... -"

"John, I'm so sorry."

John doesn't let him speak. "Was it my fault, Sherlock? Was I that boring to make you find excitement in different places with different people?"

Sherlock remembers Victor Trevor and the previous lovers. He remembers the nights with them in cheap hotels; going back to Baker Street afterwards with love bites all around his neck. He even remembers not wearing his scarf to make John see them, to show how proud he was of being such a dirty and promiscuous person. Sherlock remember hearing John's unsuccessfully attempts to cry silently after seeing him like that.

"Do you remember when I told you I was going back to Bart's to study Paediatric Medicine?"

Sherlock closes his eyes. "I never listened."

John nods because Sherlock is accepting his faults and his sins.

"Do you want to know what I remember?"

John doesn't wait for an answer.

"I remember you coming home with your neck covered with love bites, then walking shirtless around me, showing me those nail marks on your back. Tell me, did you make him scream? Did he make you orgasm as much as you wanted him to? Do you still keep fucking in the sitting room?"

Sherlock shakes his head. "I - I haven't seen him since you died -"

"Haven't you? Have you changed your lover then?" asks John seriously, and Sherlock cries.

"You knew."

"Of course I knew. I always knew. It was a risk I took when we started our relationship," John explains. "I was older than you, and you, Sherlock, you were so young, always eager to find new adventures and new things. I knew someday you'd be looking for younger and more exciting people than me. But I was hoping for you to be clever and keep it in the shadows, not to rub my nose in it. I had faith in you. And I was aware of what I was getting into when we started this."

"What do you mean?" asks Sherlock.

John smiles. "I was aware of what I was getting into because I knew _you_. I knew you were clever, and people thought you were on the side of the angels because you helped the police by solving dangerous and difficult cases, but you were as dark and as poisonous as those killers and criminals you caught. I thought I could change you, but I was _so_ wrong."

Sherlock doesn't say a word and John continues.

"Didn't you ever ask yourself why I wanted to be burnt? Because I once feared for my body. I didn't want you to profane my grave. You had strange tendencies, Sherlock, and you still have them. I only asked you to respect my dead body, and did you do that? No. You hit me and you even enjoyed it, didn't you. You enjoyed watching what kind of bruises form on a dead body, of course you did."

Sherlock remains silent and John laughs.

"I don't know if you remember this, but I once promised you I'd love you even after death did us part."

"I love you, John."

John doesn't respond to that.

"You came here determined to tell me something, please, tell me. I don't have much time left and you need to let it go."

Sherlock does not hesitate. He takes a deep breath and walks a few steps forward until he's inches away from John, but the dead man takes two steps back.

"John, I love you and I'm sorry for all the pain I caused you. I didn't mean it. I never meant to kill you, I'm sorry, please. I - I swear I'd give anything to have you here with me. I'd kill myself; I'd do whatever God wants me to do, only to be with you once again. I know I can't go back in time, but if I could, I would never hurt you as I did. I wish I could have been the husband you deserved, I wish I could give you all the love, all the children and all the happiness you deserved. _Please, forgive me._"

John chuckles, and successfully hides his own tears. "Do you even remember why your ring has my name engraved inside?"

Sherlock is silent, and John understands why.

"When we got married, you got our rings engraved with our names because you said we belonged to each other," he explains.

There is a silence that feels like centuries to Sherlock, but it's mere seconds. Sherlock thinks it is a miracle, that John has come back to be here forever, with him. But he hasn't. Quite the opposite, Sherlock. Quite the opposite.

"Please, John." Sherlock begs, crying.

John's figure starts to vanish and Sherlock panics.

"Don't leave me, please, John, I'm sorry!"

"No Sherlock, don't play the apologies' game. Don't insist," says John, firmly. His voice is dark and hoarse. "Don't look at me like you used to, and don't keep repeating yourself. Rhetoric doesn't suit you. Don't you dare to come back here, because you still hurt me here, here inside me. And I really hope you understand what it is to have a broken heart, what it is to be alone, what it is to suffer and what it is to feel like dying everyday. What it is to kill the only one who ever loved you despite everything. The love you once felt for me gave me hope that no one else had ever given to me. I'm not lying," John adds, while Sherlock silently cries.

"But I wasn't able to share you, your lips and your kisses anymore. You had me as a dog at your feet. I shared my pain, my tears and my wounds with your ghost every time I sat alone, facing your empty armchair. Now it's your turn. I'm sorry, but you'll have to find the way out alone. You want things I can't grant you, because you're the only one who can forgive and atone for yourself. Now leave, and don't ever come back."

Sherlock tries to reach John's hand, but he has disappeared, he's gone. The dark clouds are gone and the sun is shining again over that lovely and calm piece of land that belongs to John. The light wind is warm and not cold anymore. Sherlock finds he is alone, facing John's cold gravestone.

His eyes are closed and he feels himself falling.

Sherlock's forehead rests against the soft grass of John's grave.

Was it a dream?

No, Sherlock.

This was reality.

This was John's justice.

And this was your sentence.

* * *

_Alfonsina Storni, tormented by an impossible love, wrote her last piece of poetry `Voy A Dormir´(I'm Going to Sleep) one night before meeting her own death. Desperately in love with a man who refused to reciprocate her love and accept her heart, Alfonsina believed her life was meaningless. One night, she slowly walked out to sea until she drowned._

_Oh Alfonsina, what new poems you went to look for?_

_"A bird remarks you some stanzas_  
_For you to forget them..._  
_Thanks. Oh, One least thing:_  
_If he calls again,_  
_Tell him not to insist_  
_Because I've left..."_

_That's why John chose the Thames. He wanted to drown himself into the deep of the river to look for new poems, a new start._

_And for a new heart._


	6. Hopeless Man

**CHAPTER VI:**

**HOPELESS MAN**

_"More... I want more."_

_Victor smiled and __thrust __deeper__ this time. Sherlock felt more of that handsome man's weight on him and he moaned with pleasure, feeling himself on the edge. The orgasm was going to hit soon and he wanted to enjoy it._

_"Do you like it, Sherlock? Am I doing it better than that husband of yours used __to__?" asked Victor with a chuckle, still moving himself inside and out of Sherlock and the detective laughed._

_"He's... ah... dead," explained Sherlock between moans._

_"Is he? Or is he an old man you are embarrassed of?"_

_Sherlock nodded and continued moaning Victor's name until the __stranger __finished and collapsed on top of him._

_"I don't like this place."_

_Victor lit a cigarette and handed it to his lover "Neither do I, but you wanted to come to this side of the city. We could have gone to the best hotel, you know."_

_"I don't want him to see me," explained Sherlock, seductively exhaling a grey cloud of smoke. _

_"__Isn't__ he dead?" _

_Sherlock nods._

_"Why don't you ask him for a divorce? I don't understand why you keep putting up with him if you don't love him."_

_"You don't understand -"_

_Victor cut him off, "I'm tired of this Sherlock. __How__ long are we going to keep __going on __like this?"_

_"There's no us, Victor. What we have is sex."_

_The unknown man started to pick up his own clothes. _

_"I thought you liked me."_

_Sherlock smiled "You're interesting, clever, I like you. But I don't love you."_

_"I don't understand what you want, Sherlock," said Victor with a frown "You don't love him, you don't want him. But you want me __**- **__and don't start with that shit again, I know you want me otherwise you wouldn't be calling me like __you did__ today. Who knows what you want?" __he __added __sarcastically__._

_The detective looked at his surroundings. The room of __the__ cheap hotel was small, the bed was old and the sheets weren't clean. The floor was dusty and next to him __on__ the bedside table, a pack of condoms and a bottle of old lube were ready there. An old but big mirror in front of the bed and Sherlock looked his own reflection. He was pale, Victor had left new love bites all around his neck and chest. His expression was the one a lost man would have._

_Sherlock didn't recognise himself._

_The detective laughed__**.**__ "I want to kill him," he said with a dark look in his eyes._

_"You're insane." Victor laughed while __he__ continued __to dress__ himself._

_The detective shook his head__.__ "__I'm__ not."_

_Before Victor could say anything __else__, Sherlock __dressed and__ left__,__ without saying a word._

Sherlock wakes up, only to find himself lying on his bed, on John's side of the bed, tightly wrapped in his heavy duvet. The lights are off, the curtains of the window are closed, the light is minimal. Everything is dark. And, next to him, is one of John's old jumpers. It's so dark, and he can barely remember anything about what happened. His freshest memory is the cold grass against his skin and darkness. Nothing else.

"Oh, I see you have finally decided to open your eyes."

He yawns and tries to open his eyes. Mycroft is standing in the doorway, looking at him with those green eyes Sherlock has known since the day he was born. Mycroft is carrying a mug with hot tea. Sherlock takes it as soon as his brother offers it to him and he also notes it's John's mug and John's favourite tea brand.

"I was called to pick you up; it seems you'd fainted. Strong emotions, I told the caretaker. At least -"

"John was there," says Sherlock with a serious expression.

Mycroft holds his breath. He looks at his little brother straight at the eye and waits for him to elaborate.

"He was there. We talked. I - I asked him - I tried to -" Sherlock tries to articulate his words, to make them work, to give them sense but he can't. He even tries to fight tears back, he can't cry anymore, he feels like he has dried himself out.

But Mycroft just looks at him straight in the eye "Sherlock, please. We both know ghosts do not exist."

"That's not what - I - John talked to me!"

"Sherlock, I think you need to sleep. I can send one of my maids -"

"I don't need maids, I need John! I saw him, Mycroft. You have to believe me!" shouts Sherlock, desperate.

The member of the British Government sighs when he looks at his little brother, reduced to a dead man, walking between the living, carrying another dead man over his tired shoulders.

Mycroft also remembers the CCTV footage and tries to keep himself calm, as he needs to be these days, for his own sake.

"Sherlock, John is dead. You are much cleverer than this, you know he is dead and you also know things like that don't happen. Ghosts do not exist."

Sherlock places both of his hands close to his forehead "I know what I saw, I saw him!"

Mycroft looked down at his watch. "There are things I need to take care of, and they might concern you. But seeing you in this..." he pauses to look at his brother and his surroundings, "in this situation, I think we can discuss it later. I shall leave now. Please, behave."

"It's a year today."

Mycroft turns "I know. It surprises me you remember, brother. Are you visiting John's grave?" asks Mycroft, almost bordering the limit between mocking and pitying Sherlock.

The childish rivalry they share hasn't died. But the dead man in between them is enough to make it stop, at least for a while.

"He told me not to go there again. He doesn't want me there."

"I wonder why -"

Sherlock explodes "Can you stop playing this absurd and stupid game, Mycroft? Don't you see how much John's absence hurts me?"

There's a silence that both brothers feel will last for an eternity. Sherlock runs a hand over his wild curls and closes his eyes, feeling the heavy and warm tears freely falling from his tired eyes. Mycroft only stares at him, and inwardly wishes he could sit beside his brother, kiss his head and tell him how much he wants that pain to go away. That's what he did when Sherlock was a little kid, when he was a mere child sometimes upset because Mummy forbid him to play with dangerous things. Sherlock would cry and run to his arms, and Mycroft would kindly and softly kiss his dark head and tell him everything was fine.

But this time, Mummy hasn't forbidden Sherlock from doing anything and Sherlock hasn't run to Mycroft's arms. Instead of that, Sherlock has seen the love of his life dying alone, and now he's can only cry alone. And Mycroft can do little about that. Mycroft Holmes is not ten years old anymore, and Sherlock Holmes is not three years old anymore. They are both grown men now.

"I know it hurts you, though I won't say I know how much, because I _don't_ know. But what I _do _know is that John was not there, Sherlock." That's all Mycroft says.

The older brother turns and faces the door, which is open and inviting him to leave and let the future event happen. What can he do? Nothing. Mycroft can't do anything to stop what's going to happen soon. It's written, as everything else, it's already been written in Sherlock's destiny.

The bloodstains will be more than mere stains but rivers of dark, scarlet blood.

As Mycroft walks down the seventeen steps to meet the last door that marks the boundary, the limit between the streets and the intimacy and private life of a lonely man named Sherlock Holmes, Mycroft remembers the footage, all the images of his brother facing John's grave... and talking to no one.

All the time Sherlock has been there, he talked to no one. As soon as Hamish, that little sickly orphan left the scene, Sherlock turned to face a gravestone and spoke to no one. There was no one there but Sherlock. It broke Mycroft's heart to watch his brother talking to the wind, crying and sobbing, admitting his own sins, his own faults and his own bad and stupid actions against his love, against John Watson. Then, Mycroft had to see his brother falling to the grass, planting his kneecaps on that cold floor and then his begging... It was all the same, all over again Sherlock asking for forgiveness and redemption. Atonement. Sherlock trying to atone himself. Sherlock crying and sobbing like a baby. Sherlock pleading. And finally, Sherlock fainting.

Was John there? Was John really there, talking to his brother, asking questions and looking for answers? Because Mycroft knew things, he knew about Sherlock's adventures and lovers, and also about their lack of communication and more, such as John's life at the clinic, Mycroft realised he never knew about the other things. Things he had ignored, or maybe they were perfectly hidden between his brother and John. Things such as John's wishes to have a family, to have children. Sherlock wishes to hit his own husband and make him walk away... this wasn't in his thoughts. However, Mycroft understands now. He understands John now, and it hurts him, very deep inside his heart, knowing the agonies his brother was capable of putting John through, the things Sherlock once had in mind, the things Sherlock once planned to make John suffer.

How can you hate your own brother, your own blood?

Sometimes it's hard to, specially when half of your being loves him no end. It doesn't matter what Sherlock did, Mycroft was always behind him cleaning the mess, putting him together, ready to pick up the pieces. It didn't matter to Mycroft what his colleagues thought, Sherlock was his little brother and he was always going to be his.

Mycroft loves Sherlock so much, he still cares. But he doesn't love him _only_ because it's Sherlock and Sherlock is his brother. Mycroft does it because that was one of John wishes. And Mycroft keeps his promises.

But today, Sherlock, without knowing it, will try to bend his own destiny trying to cross to another path. And John warned him, but maybe Sherlock never listened.

Sherlock is the only one capable of atonement and forgiveness for himself.

Death won't grant him anything.

* * *

The water its cold, and it feels even worse against his naked skin.

His mind doesn't play games. Sherlock remembers every single one of John's breaths, every single one of John's movements and every single one of John's words. Still, he doesn't know how to define that. Sherlock is a scientist without a degree, he is an empirical person, therefore, he knows better than anyone that ghosts and such things don't exist. But he's also convinced that this wasn't a dream, that John was there and that his lungs were working and that his heart was beating.

It was so real. So damned real it hurts him.

John's words were heavy, and he probably didn't know the weight of his words. Sherlock carries them all on his back, over his shoulders and he thinks he will soon give up. Those words keep Sherlock dumb, thinking and rethinking about all the things he had done to his John. The pain is endless, but the memories have their limits, their own boundaries. Sherlock can only remember all the things he had done and it hurts him. It's a tornado of dark and mean actions, sarcastic laughter, poisonous thoughts and cruel and very cold silences.

Sherlock works out his silences were too cold, and John's winters were too long.

It is a year today.

He looks down at his naked body and tries to look for his traces, to those old traces John had left on him before he died. And he cries when he realises he can't find one. One, Sherlock, you can't find one.

The only traces he finds are those left by old lovers, Victor for example. Sherlock feels ashamed. Most of his nights since John's death have been enlightened by John inside his dreams, sometimes just smiling and nothing else. But the very night that marks a year since he left, Sherlock dreams about Victor and those cruel words leaving his own mouth.

_"I want to kill him,"_

I want to kill him. Such a easy and stupid line, but yet, it has a very poisonous and dangerous meaning. Sherlock can't even believe he once dared to say it.

Sunk into cold water, Sherlock imagines John doing the same as him, trying to erase any mark left on his body before meeting his own death. A year ago, John took a bath and washed his white hair with Sherlock's shampoo and washed his body using Sherlock's soap. John wanted to feel like him, he wanted to be brave and have the courage to face what he was about to face. John wanted to die inhaling for the last time Sherlock's scent on him. And he had to do it using his products, because Sherlock had not touched him for a long time.

The water reflects an image he doesn't want to see any longer. It's the image of a dark man, a man who can only live in the shadows because he doesn't belong to the side of the angels. John told him, John told him he was as dark, mean and as poisonous as those criminals and killers he once caught.

Is Sherlock a criminal? Yes, he stole John's heart. Is Sherlock a killer? Yes, he killed John. He shamelessly and heartlessly took John's heart out of his chest and stepped on it, just as he wanted to. John's sin was falling for that demon named Sherlock Holmes, thinking he had the weapons and hope enough to change him and bend their destinies. Sherlock's sin was enchanting him with promises he wasn't able to keep. But maybe the worse sinner wasn't the one who never stopped believing, but the one who _thought_ he had stopped loving.

Why did he have to do it? Sherlock remembers his dark moments, his dark past surrounded by nothing but used needles and little mountains of white powder, ready to be injected into his veins to travel all around his body and then hit his brain and give him the most wonderful sensation he had experienced. Those days were also full of loneliness. And when John appeared, God, John gave him enough reasons to keep himself clean and walk straight along the streets without bending his steps to the nearest alley to buy cocaine. After John, when John was his everything, Sherlock never had any intention, any thought of going back to that.

Drugs are a good memory when they help him to remember their first moments. Back then, he always declined and rejected John, claiming he might be ill, that he might spread STDs and infect John with some unwanted and dangerous disease. Did John care? Sherlock cries, because John didn't care. John never cared, he just trusted in him and let them become one.

And he also remembers John crying when both of their results were good. They were both clean and healthy men. They could love each other as they wanted to. They could both be as happy as they wanted to.

No.

Until one of them wanted to.

That sharp and fine instrument rests next to the bath. It's there waiting for Sherlock to take the decision. It won't wait any longer.

"I can't be without you, John. Come for me, please, come."

The fine, silvery and sharp knife meets the skin of his right wrist and Sherlock looks on calmly and patiently as heavy, scarlet drops of blood run down the new wound.

It doesn't hurt.

Sherlock's right hand is weak now, he can barely hold the knife and for a moment his long and cold fingers close round the sharp object. Sherlock knows he can't waste a moment, and his left wrist meets with a new wound.

It doesn't hurt.

The fine object falls from his hand to the white floor and now everything has his blood. There are more than simple and mere stains.

There is a river of blood.

Sherlock closes his eyes and raises his arms and places them both in front of him. He looks straight at his now wounded and red wrists. The cut is deep and the blood going out is too much. He knows within a few minutes his awful and poisonous self will be drown and dried, and there will be nothing but water tainted by his blood and a lifeless body sunk into a bath tub.

His weak wrists fall to the water, he can't keep them any longer and he knows it's for the best. Water will do it better, allowing the blood to gush out of his body.

The widower sighs when he feels himself close to the moment.

If cutting his own wrists is a way to exorcise himself, Sherlock thinks he's succeeding.

If cutting his own wrists is a way to kill himself and find John again, Sherlock thinks he's succeeding.

But he's not.

* * *

"Did it hurt?"

Hamish shakes his head, and kindly smiles. "No, it was nothing, Thanks Nurse Morstan."

The blonde nurse nods and kisses little Hamish cheek. Today was the second day of his chemotherapy session and she was close to him through the whole process. Mary took Hamish's hand and kindly and carefully explained the process to him and how things worked.

For a moment, she thinks she has forgotten what day is it today.

Until now.

"Nurse Morstan, yesterday Sister Susan took me to visit Doctor Watson,"

Mary's heart starts to beat faster.

"Did she? Did you take that letter I helped you to write?" asks Mary with a weak smile while she seats next to Hamish on his hospital bed.

Hamish nods. "Yes. And I met Doctor Watson's bestest friend."

"Really? Who was it, would you like to tell me?"

"He didn't tell me his name, but he said he was Doctor Watson's friend. And guess what? He was tall and he had a coat like the super detective in the stories Doctor Watson used to tell me!"

Hamish words were so soft, and yet so warm. Mary catches her breath as soon as Hamish mentions he was tall and that he was wearing a long coat. She is sure it was Sherlock.

"What else did he tell you?"

Hamish placed his little index finger over his lips, trying to remember "He told me Doctor Watson was in Heaven and that he was watching us. He asked me if we missed him and I told her you and him used to read us stories!"

Mary nods. "Did he?" she asks with genuine curiosity.

"Yes, I think he was a very bestest friend cause he cried very much. He was sad," says Hamish with a very sad expression, and Mary only nods and gives him a big hug.

"Everyone misses him, Hamish," says Mary with a sigh "And he was right, Doctor Watson is now in Heaven and he's watching us from there, and he's also taking care of us!"

Mary smiles and Hamish kisses her cheek.

"Is Doctor Watson taking care of us only? Or is he taking care of his friend too?"

Mary smiles warmly and genuinely nods "Doctor Watson is taking care of all of us and of his friend too!"

Nurse Mary Morstan really wishes this is true.

* * *

Lestrade has to close his eyes when he sees Sherlock's body sunk inside that bath tub, and the water falling out is not transparent but _red_. He has been calling him for hours and hours and something made him go to Baker Street. Greg can't tell what, but something made him take his own car and drive directly to Baker Street without stopping.

The door was open, not key locked and as soon as he put a foot on the sitting room, he could hear water falling and nothing but silence. His attempts to call Sherlock were futile.

Lestrade takes one wrist and he's afraid when he sees Sherlock's naked and pale body. His body is cold, he's freezing and he had lost lots of blood. He's extremely pale and his eyes are closed. It doesn't matter how many times or how hard the D.I. slaps him, Sherlock doesn't respond. His breathing is slow and his heart is beating very slowly as well.

There is a chance.

He calls the older Holmes and he knows there will be an ambulance and doctors in seconds.

Frenetically looking for towels, anything to cover Sherlock's cold body and tie to his wrist to make the bleeding stop, Greg leaves Sherlock alone, lying naked and almost half unconscious on the floor of the bathroom.

The widower and suicide man opens his eyes and sees the white floor painted with his red blood. He's disappointed and sad, because John has not come for him yet.

However, Sherlock is so close to changing his destiny that when he tilts his head to his side, he sees him standing on the doorway, half smiling and half shaking his head.

John looks disappointed. Sherlock tries to touch him, he tries to raise his hand, but he can't.

It does hurt now.

"Does it hurt?" asks John and Sherlock closes to his eyes.

Sherlock has finally surrendered.

Has he?

* * *

_Hopeless Man._

_A hopeless man has_

_A sharp knife ready,_

_Two wrists begging,_

_And the sad memories of a life._

_._

_Hopeless man wants to die,_

_There's a bullet left in the gun,_

_And a heart desperate to stop beating._

_His soul wants to run._

_._

_Hopeless man, you can't die,_

_You have to live!_

_Hopeless man, you can't die,_

_Because first you have to redeem.  
_

_.  
_

_Hopeless man will jump,  
_

_Hopeless man will die.  
_

_Hopeless man won't find him,  
_

_Hopeless man will regret it.  
_


	7. Molly

**Author's Note: ****Thanks to librarianmum for being an amazing beta, and thanks for the feedback! If you have the time, please review!**

**ALSO:**** Special thanks to CowMow for letting me use ****_The King's Arms _****as the name of a pub I mention here. Originally she placed her story "The Violin Man" there, in that same pub. So, don't hesitate, and give it a chance because it's amazing fic and you won't regret it.**

* * *

**CHAPTER VII:**

**MOLLY  
**

The blonde man takes a look around the place. It's all white, and everything is so pristine, so clean. Just like hospitals always are, aren't they? And who is _he_ to change that?

The man lying on the bed is sleeping. His dark curls, still free from any white hairs, are damp; the nurses washed him a few minutes ago. He's still pale, even after the blood transfusions. There are several duvets over him. He's cold.

The facial features reveal how tired that man is. His porcelain skin is so soft.

John sits next to Sherlock and takes his hand, softly caressing the wounded wrist. Sherlock has bandages covering most of the soft skin of his wrist and he also has special cuffs that keep his hands secure to the edge of the bed. He is still wearing their wedding ring, though it's loose on his finger. It shines, and John knows Sherlock has been cleaning it regularly, like someone who cares.

John knows Sherlock cares; he also knows Sherlock is literally _dying_ to change the past and his actions by changing his future and hurting himself. God, how badly John wishes to tell him - to explain to him how these things work. But he know very little as well. John knew very little about what life had in store for him. He had a destiny and he accepted it without knowing. Now Sherlock must do the same, just as all human beings do.

Sherlock looks so peaceful in his sleep. His eyelids are perfectly glued together; John can't see those stormy and tired eyes. He's thankful for that.

How can someone live a life full of nothing? There is a moment in your life in which you realise your entire existence is full of meaningless things, empty spaces, lost and also valuable memories. In that moment you also realise the weight your words and actions had, and now you feel how heavy they are against your body, over your shoulders.

The meaningless issues are those banal and stupid empty material things you gave an importance they didn't deserve; a lover, two lovers, who knows how many you once cared about but not like _that_, you only cared when you needed them.

The empty spaces are those that you find yourself trying to fill with things you had broken. The same day you lost the only love of your life, because John Watson only appears once in people's life - that same day you ripped the photographs; the only ones he left to you, because before dying he burned them all. You didn't care at all, and now you don't have a single picture to look at and remember.

Lost and valuable memories are those you can't remember, you have a little idea of what they are about, but you can't remember them completely. You can only hear laughs, sometimes crying and gasps for air, and then you remember a breathless man and two blue eyes begging for mercy. If you once explained to him that you deleted the rubbish to give more room to the useful information, now you want to find a way to recover the deleted data. But you can't.

And the weight your actions and words had are now on your shoulders. If everything started one morning in which you had a bad dream and woke up and looked at him, peacefully sleeping, maybe dreaming about you, now you find yourself looking for a way to go back in time and change it. If maybe that cold glare you gave to him could be a warm and caring hug. If only your cold silence could be soft and warm kisses. If only your adventures in cheap hotels could be adventures of you and John chasing criminals. If only that last _good night_ you whispered to him could be a sincere and honest _I'm sorry._

Nevertheless, the pain that your wrist, your body, your soul and your heart are experiencing is nothing compared to the pain John felt. So, if you're trying to be the martyr, the one who wants to feel the pain just because you feel like you deserve it, just _be_. Be the one suffering, be the one dying, be the one begging. Maybe John Watson never told you this, but you can't just bend your destiny, you can't cross to the other side. Sherlock Holmes is looking for a way, he _needs_ to find a way to see John again, and he thinks he knows how to. What Sherlock doesn't know, is that they are decades apart. No matter how many times he pulls the trigger, the bullet will never leave the barrel. No matter how many times he stabs himself, the knife will never hurt him as he wants it to. No matter how many pills he takes, they will never be enough. And no matter what Sherlock does, he won't see John again.

"Sherlock, my love."

When Sherlock opens his eyes, he feels his left hand hanging off the bed and his wedding ring is on the floor.

* * *

Molly is standing outside the room and she's struggling, she doesn't know if whether she should see him or not.

It was the day of John's anniversary when she saw the ambulance arriving at Bart's and then several doctors running next to stretcher carrying Sherlock Holmes' almost lifeless body.

Molly had visited John's grave before going to work. She had bought him those lovely flowers he sometimes got for her and left them on that stone with his name engraved on it. She told John about her cat, about that new Bond film on at the cinema, and a few new things about her. She had met a very nice man named David, who was very kind - a very lovely person. One thing Molly told John was that she felt like David was the one. He accepted her as she was, she liked cats as well and he seemed very interested and looking forward to something else than a simple relationship. That comment made Molly smile after crying for a while.

So when she saw Sherlock for the first time in a very long time, she couldn't believe it. The circumstances weren't particularly appropriate, Sherlock was lying on a stretcher naked, only covered by some towels and he was extremely pale. His wrists were tied with several bandages and they were already red stained.

And Greg Lestrade was there with him. They exchanged a nod and then he told her everything; about the knife, the bath tub and the cold water. About Sherlock's possible reasons.

Molly knew Sherlock was not doing this for a case.

And when Molly opens the door, softly, she's greeted by a pair of greyish eyes. She can't articulate a word just yet. Molly stays away from his bed for a few seconds and then, shyly and very slowly, she walks over until she's standing next to him. Molly looks at Sherlock; his eyes are not defiant anymore. They don't have that gleam, that special something she once loved, she once craved, she once wanted to earn.

His cheeks, those cheeks that John fattened up in their first years together are now sharp and they don't have that healthy pink shadow they once had – that Molly can remember. Sherlock's pink and full lips are now fallen, whitish.

Sherlock is not the man she used to remember. Sherlock was big, defiant, always eager, brilliant, amazing, incredible. Now Sherlock is small, he's shy, he looks pathetic. He looks like nothing.

"Hello, Sherlock," says Molly firmly, offering a very small smile.

Sherlock blinks twice, still looking at her for long seconds before replying. "Hello, Molly."

She sits next to him and looks everywhere but at Sherlock. She can't look at him, and only God knows why. Molly used to look out for him, she used to look at herself at the mirror and try different lipsticks, she even rehearsed different ways to talk to him, phrases, looks. Now Molly really doesn't care how she looks when she's with him.

She thought she was going to slap him, that she was going to cry and shout all the things she thought about him. That he should have cared for John, that he didn't deserve him. That _he_ should be dead, not John. But when she sees him so fragile, so pathetic, so ill, Molly can't really say a word.

"Could you... could you help me, please? My ring is on the floor," murmurs Sherlock and Molly frowns, confused.

Sherlock never, but never, _ever_ said please. She never heard a 'please' coming from him, only once and it was when he jumped off Bart's roof to save people's lives.

The blonde woman nods and looks at the floor. On the opposite side of the bed, Molly sees a golden ring lying on the floor, just below Sherlock's left hand. She takes it and looks at it, very quickly, seeing John's name engraved inside. When she goes to hand it to him, she sees he has cuffs on his wrists to keep his hands secured to the edge of the bed.

Molly looks at Sherlock and she understands. She takes his left hand and puts the ring on his ring finger. It takes mere seconds, and when she finishes, Sherlock takes her hand and caresses it.

"Thank you," murmurs Sherlock and Molly sighs, sadly.

She can't stand it anymore. She turns and looks at the door; she wants to leave, and she's about to do it when she hears him calling her name. Sherlock always said her name with that hint of fake need. He always commented on her features or her hair to get what he wanted. Today Sherlock called her name sincerely.

"Please, stay."

Molly nods and sits next to him again. She looks at the floor, at her bare hands and then she hears him talking again.

"Can you talk about him?"

Molly senses the desperation in his voice. Sherlock looks desperate but eager to know. There's something Molly can't lay her finger on, something is just not as it is supposed to be. There's something wrong going on but she can't tell what it is.

She just nods and starts speaking. Molly tells him about the time John appeared on her lab with flowers for the first time. Most of the people who knew John thought he was cheating on Sherlock with her. Some others thought he was doing it because she was a lonely spinster. But John and Molly knew they were only friends. Very good friends.

"He gets- he _used_ to get me violet flowers," she explains, and Sherlock nods.

Then she tells him about those Bond films they watched, the nice dinners together and some visits to the pub across from Bart's. Molly laughs a bit when she remembers the karaoke nights and John singing _'Oh! Darling'_, unsuccessfully trying to be John Lennon for one night.

...

_They were well known in that pub, The King's Arms. It's not that John was a drinker, but he liked the karaoke afternoons - they were always cheerful and most of the doctors from Bart's and the clinic where he was working used to go there as well. The food was good, and the bartender, a man named Bertie, was a good-natured, very funny bloke. He knew all the doctors and nurses and he was always there when they needed to talk or have a good drink after work. _

_It was a Friday night when John invited Molly. That same night she accepted a beer and both raised their drinks in the air to toast Queen and country. _

_"Got any plans, Molls?"_

_Molly shook her head and smiled "Not really. I rented some movies, I'll probably spend the weekend at my flat doing nothing."_

_"Karaoke night, ladies and gentlemen! The first one who comes to the stage gets a dinner for two for free, courtesy of the house! Well, if she or he does it well and the punters agree!" announced Bertie, enthusiastically, holding a microphone in one hand and raising his own glass._

_The little stage was small, just a step over the floor. It was placed in a nice corner of the pub, with some nice lights, a microphone and a screen where the lyrics were at the disposal of the singer. There was a chair too and a guitar. It was lovely._

_Most of the clients started to wolf whistle and soon people started to chat up others occupying the busy tables. Fun times were guaranteed in The King's Arms._

_John placed his pint over the wooden table and grinned "Fancy a nice dinner, Molly?"_

_Molly smiled and then frowned, he was really going to do it?_

_"Can you sing?" she asked, mockingly._

_Without replying, John approached the stage and Bertie announced him._

_"OK, we have our man here! Dr. Watson!"_

_Most of the __clientele__ knew him and started clapping, and __even those __who didn't know __him joined in__. Several started whistling, raising their __glasses __and clapping. John took the microphone and told Bertie the song he wanted to sing. __Bertie nodded__ and looked for the music and prepared the screen with the lyrics._

_"I don't need them__,__ Bertie," said John, confidently__. __The King Arm's bartender __made__ a face __at__ the public and more whistles could __be heard__._

_From her place __at__ a little table a few feet away, Molly clapped and smiled. John looked so happy, so cheerful and so different. That was the __problem__; there were days in which __he__ looked like a ghost, like a man without soul, walking without any place to go after work, like a homeless man. His eyes were dark and tired, his entire self looked sad __and defeated__. And there were days in which he would walk by her side, making jokes, __both clean__ and __dirty ones that she couldn't help laughing at__. __On t__hose days his blue eyes had a special gleam, a special something Molly loved to see __in __him. Those days John was happy. Later__,__ Molly knew those days were the same __ones on which __Sherlock __had __disappeared with a case or maybe a lover._

_Bertie left the little stage and John took the guitar. It was clear he didn't know how to play, but he took it and caressed the instrument as if he __did__. His __mock playing was__ so funny most of the men who were already drunk started __laughing. Then he__ took the microphone and started singing, looking at no one in particular._

_"Oh! Darling, please believe me_  
_I'll never do you no harm_  
_Believe me when I tell you_  
_I'll never do you no harm,_

_Bertie was smiling and the waitresses __stopped pouring __pints__ and serving food to watch John singing. Molly laughed when more whistles could __be __heard,__ and the new __clientele __coming in smiled warmly at the singing doctor._

_"Oh! Darling, if you leave me  
I'll never make it alone  
Believe me when I beg you  
Don't ever leave me alone, Molls!_

_John added her name and pointed at her. All the people in the pub turned to __look __her, and her cheeks burned__ red. __She __smiled and bit her lip__;__ John was still singing and awfully but mockingly playing the guitar while he tried to make his voice sound like Paul McCartney and John Lennon's._

_"When you told me you didn't need me anymore  
Well you know I nearly broke down and cried  
When you told me you didn't need me anymore  
Well you know I nearly fell down and died!"_

_John sang that stanza with special emphasis. His eyes were __shining__, there were some tears no one looked at or at least no one __paid __attention __to.__ John continued singing the song until it was over, and as soon as he finished it__,__ Bertie took his hand and raised it on the air, and all the people in the pub clapped, whistled and congratulated John. He __had performed __amazingly and it __had been more than a little amusing__. _

_John won__ the free dinner__, naturally,__and shared__ it with Molly that same night; a wonderful recipe specially created by Bertie. The young __b__artender insisted on taking a photo of them, saying they were their special clients, the special clients of the pub._

_..._

"They took a photo of us, and it's still hanging on one of the walls of the pub. Bertie and the bargirls miss him lots," says Molly, wiping the tears that were falling freely from her eyes while she told Sherlock about that night. She told him everything, every action John did, every word he pronounced. Molly remembers that night as if it has been just yesterday.

Molly also tells Sherlock about the lollipops, their breakfasts and the times they had tea and scones while both working a long shift; about John's laughs, John's smiles, John's wishes, John's dreams and hopes.

"He was helping a little boy named Hamish. Well, John helped all the children, but Hamish was like his little one. He once- John once told me he loved Hamish as if he were his real son," explained Molly, speaking very softly and slowly, being careful with her choice of words. "John told me Hamish was the son he would _never_ have."

...

_They were sharing a coffee in the clinic's cafeteria. Molly had just finished her shift and __she'd gone __to __collect__ John __-__ they were going to have dinner that day __- __when John __apologized. He__ was not going to be able to go since one of the children needed him that night._

_"Will he be OK? Do you need me to get you something?" _

_John shook his head "Hamish will be fine, he's my strong little one. I will just stay with him tonight, to check how his body reacts to the new medication."_

_"He's the one with cancer, isn't he?" asked Molly._

_John nodded "I don't like to watch him suffer, he's like the son I'll never have and I'm trying my best to make him feel better. Sometimes __it's just__ not enough," __he added__, __the pain clear __in his voice._

_"John, are you OK? You look tired. Do you want me to stay with you? I don't have anything -"_

_But John cut her off__.__ "Thanks Molly, but a nurse is staying for the night shift, we'll __be __fine. Thanks,"_

_Molly made John __promise that__ he would text her how Hamish was._

_..._

Sherlock cries, silently, and keeps looking at her, directly in her eyes, waiting for more. He's eager to know more, to hear more things about his John; he doesn't care how much those stories might hurt him.

"John was such a nice and funny person in his last days, always so cheerful. I still can't believe he died."

Sherlock, who has been listening and nodding only, allows himself to ask.

"Did he ever talk about me, did he ever mention me?"

Molly won't lie, but there's no need to be soft and subtle anymore "No, he didn't. He only asked me once if I still loved you."

...

_"Do you still love Sherlock?"_

_Molly almost dropped the lab equipment she was carrying when John asked her that question. And she blushed. It was awkward to talk about that man. She hadn't seen him in a long time, it was something she really could not put a finger on, but she didn't miss him. After years and years of doing whatever he wanted her to, just to please him and nothing else, her mind stopped caring about him. So did her heart. _

_"No. I grew out of him long time ago, John. I guess I thought he liked me, but not like that. He only needed the lab and some body parts. And he always loved you," said Molly with a true and genuine smile and John just nodded._

_John apologised for his question and Molly assured him it was OK, that he was his husband and he had the right to ask._

_"Where is he by the way? Haven't seen him in months!"_

_The doctor smiled "He's been away on a case,"_

_"For so long?"_

_"Yep. It's a very important case, the most important of his career, I suppose. It's going to end soon, the results will surprise everyone."_

_Molly just nodded and continued talking about her cat and the bodies she was working on._

_..._

A silent tear falls from Sherlock's eye and Molly sees how it travels down his cheek, leaving a wet trace. Again, she describes to Sherlock every single one of John's words, every single one of John's movements.

"Was he sad?" asks Sherlock, almost choking on his own words.

And Molly nods.

"He was. He was very sad, Sherlock. His eyes were often red; he never talked about you. I knew he cried when he thought no one was watching, but I never asked him. I'm truly sorry and very angry with myself, because I never asked him - and yet I know that if I _had_ asked him, he wouldn't have told me. I know I could have helped him, but he would never have let me."

Molly sees Sherlock's palm is up, seeking contact, and she allows herself to cry and take his hand.

Sherlock's hand is warm and as soon as she lays her head on his chest, he rests his chin over her blond hair. Sherlock can't hug her properly; he can only lean his head and cry with her.

"I regret so many things, I just can't... how can you live? How do you live, Sherlock?"

Molly cries and Sherlock remains silent. Her questions hurt him and he asks himself the same. How can he possibly live without John... how has he managed to drink his tea and eat takeaway without him? How has he managed to bath himself and dry his body? How has he managed to go and get a new shirt when he needed one? John was the one who cooked, and he remembers sometimes eating and having tea together, Sherlock would mock-complain and John would tell him to fuck off without really meaning it, and then they would laugh together and kiss each other. John was the one who joined him during his long baths, John would wash Sherlock's body using the soap and then he would gently dry Sherlock's body, always doing it as if Sherlock was the most precious and fragile thing in the world. And every time Sherlock needed a new shirt, John was the one who suggested the colour or sometimes he was the one buying it from the shop he knew Sherlock liked so much.

All those things Sherlock once took for granted are now all the things he craves for. They might be banal and stupid things, everyday things, but all of them hold memories of John.

"I regret things as well, Molly. And I don't even know how I've been living without him."

Molly shakes her head, and lets her hands caress Sherlock's wet cheeks. His skin is warm and he closes his eyes as soon as he feels her touch.

"I- Every time I visited John's grave, I always asked myself what I would do when I saw you and I regretted meeting John the way we did, because of _you_. But I can't hate you, Sherlock. That wouldn't be me, and despite the pain I feel for losing John, my only true friend, I can't hate you. Even when I _want_ to."

Sherlock doesn't say anything, and he doesn't let go of Molly's hand. He just remains silent.

What could he possibly say? _'I'm sorry'_? This is the moment when Sherlock realises his actions have not only affected him but all the people around him. John was not only his, but Molly's, Mary's, Hamish's... John was not only his husband, his friend, his lover. John was Molly's best friend, the one who was there for her, to give her flowers and take her out to cheer her days and make them a little brighter. John was Mary's friend as well, and her love interest, he was the one who helped her when she first started working, teaching her everything she now knows, and he gave Mary all the support she needed to be the confident and caring paediatric nurse she is now. All the love and admiration that she has won from the children is because of John. And John was like a father to Hamish, he was the one who gave that little boy the love he never had and vice versa. John was the father Hamish never had, and Hamish was the son John never had, because of _him_, because of Sherlock bloody Holmes.

John had made people's life better, he made their days brighter and he made them the people they are now. All because of John. But John died alone, suffering a pain no one would have ever been able to make disappear. There was a heart aching inside his chest, and none of his friends were able to help him or fix him.

It was as if John had died giving them all the best of him, all his strength until there wasn't anything left in his own tired body.

"Please Molly, don't leave me," asks Sherlock.

Molly closes her eyes as she shakes her head. She knows John would have liked her to be close to Sherlock, he would have wanted her to help him. Somehow. She also knows John wouldn't like her to show that animosity she always thought she would have once she faced Sherlock again. Molly couldn't hate Sherlock, not even when she wants to.

She promises Sherlock they will see each other again.

* * *

Mary is facing John's grave once more. She kneels and leaves the white roses she's got for him. Those are the ones she used to put on his desk, to give John's office a new touch, a new scent. John loved them.

"Hello, John. I'm sorry I didn't come here sooner. You know I always come before or after work, but the children have needed me these past days," she says as she takes the old flowers off the grave to take away with her. John's grave is still pristine, full of flowers and notes from his old patients.

"How are you? I bet you're fine." She pauses for a moment, and then she continues. "We're fine, the girls at the clinic. Anne is moving to the countryside with her husband and Jane is dating Doctor Nicholls! Can you believe it? Remember when you told me they liked each other? You were right!"

Mary laughs and straightens her colorful jacket.

The sky is quite blue, the summer is coming soon. The spring has had an amazing effect on the trees and flowers. They are all blossoming, perfectly healthy.

Everything seems to be perfect there. Everything is quiet and peaceful, just as John would have liked it.

"John, please help Hamish. He's not getting doing all that well. The doctors keep telling me his body should be strong enough to take the chemotherapy treatment, but the cancer is taking him. Do something, please," Mary begs and she starts crying.

"Do something so he doesn't suffer anymore."

Mary gives John's grave one last look and turns around and leaves. She wipes away her tears. She has to help Hamish today with his chemotherapy and she doesn't want him to see she has been crying.

* * *

Molly left with the promise of visiting him soon. She didn't say when exactly, but Sherlock knows she keeps her promises.

And, several days after, Sherlock is allowed to leave hospital.

As soon as he gets his freedom, Sherlock walks with Molly and they visit The King's Arms. When they arrive, Molly takes Sherlock to the usual table they used to occupy, next to a wall where the picture of Molly and John is hanging on the wall. It's big, and it has a very happy John in it. He has an arm around Molly's thin shoulders and they are both smiling. They are sitting on that same table, and they have some food and two pints. Bertie, the happy bartender, is also in the picture, just next to John, holding a glass on the air. Just under the photographs, Sherlock reads a description.

_"Molly Hooper and Dr. John Watson, special clients of The King's Arms - April 1st, 2012."_

It was taken just a few days before John's death.

"Hello Molls! Long time no see!" A man in his middle thirties, maybe early forties approaches them. He smiles as soon as he sees Molly, and she stands up. He gives her a kiss and a shy hug. Sherlock deduces he likes Molly. He has liked her for a long time.

"Hi Bertie! How are you? How have things have been going?" asks Molly, still smiling at him.

Bertie makes a gesture with his hand "Well, you know, the usual. Oh, you came with your boyfriend," adds the man with an awkward smile and he extended his hand to Sherlock, who stands up and shakes it.

"No, this is Sherlock Holmes," then Molly turns to Sherlock "Sherlock, he's Bertie, the owner and bartender of this pub."

"Nice to meet you! Er, sorry for asking this, but you're Sherlock Holmes... the detective, right?"

Sherlock only nods and Bertie smiles "Whoa, welcome to my pub. Anything on me, please!"

"Thanks Bertie, but we will just have tea if you have some,"

"Yes we have some, Molls. I'll prepare it myself,"

"He likes you," says Sherlock as soon as Bertie disappears behind the wooden counter. "He's liked you for a long time, he won't tell you though."

Molly only smiled "John said the same. He even said he was going to talk to Bertie and arrange a date, but then he_ died_."

Sherlock turns to look at Molly. She's calmly looking at the surroundings, not really thinking about what she's just said. And Sherlock is not angry, but he envies the way Molly says it, the way she can say _'John died'_ without crying anymore, without screaming and kicking the floor as he does when he's alone. It seems like everyone has gotten over it. Everyone but himself.

"Here you go, Earl Grey for you two. I hope that's OK?"

Molly nods gratefully.

"Molly, we were expecting you the other day, you know, two Fridays ago?... I played John's song, all the doctors were here," says Bertie with a sad expression and Sherlock immediately looks at him.

"I didn't feel well, I'm sorry Bertie, I know I promised you I was coming. Could you play it again? Sherlock is -"

"I'm John's husband," says Sherlock, with a serious but sad tone of voice and Bertie looks at Molly and then back at Sherlock. He said it using the _present tense_.

The pub is silent; they are practically the only ones there and Sherlock can feel Bertie's eyes on him.

"Sure, mate," Bertie agrees and goes to look for the DVD he had recorded. That night was one of those karaoke nights Bertie loved so much.

There's a TV screen hanging on the opposite wall. When the video starts, the only thing they can see is darkness and whistles, people clapping and then the camera is on John. The man holding the device was clearly standing to one side of the pub, most likely standing against a wall. Sherlock leaves his seat and walks until he's very, very close to the screen. He really needs to see it, to be close to it, to _that_ John.

_"I don't need them__,__ Bertie," _says John, confidently and Bertie, who is standing next to him makes a face at the public and they whistle and start clapping.

The camera then moves and is now on Molly. She is smiling and clapping. She looks happy.

Bertie looks at Molly and she keeps her eyes on Sherlock, who is standing just in front of the screen, looking at the video, only focusing on John.

The bartender leaves the little stage and John takes a guitar. Sherlock frowns; he remembers John knew how to play the clarinet, but not the guitar. But this John is playing, he's making funny movement with his hands while he mimics strumming the strings.

John takes the microphone and starts singing, looking at no one in particular.

_"Oh! Darling, please believe me_  
_I'll never do you no harm_  
_Believe me when I tell you_  
_I'll never do you no harm,_

The camera moves away from John and does a panoramic sweep of the place. The people there are clapping and whistling, all of them are smiling and raising their drinks to John. Then the camera moves again and is now on Bertie, who is smiling and moving his arms on the air, encouraging people to cheer the singer.

_"Oh! Darling, if you leave me  
I'll never make it alone  
Believe me when I beg you  
Don't ever leave me alone, Molls!_

John added Molly's name and is pointing at her, and the camera is on Molly again. She's gone red and she smiles at John, sincerely.

The camera goes back to John, who is still playing the guitar and forcing his vocal chords in order to change his tone of voice.

Sherlock really wishes he could have been Molly that day, and be part of John's world.

_"When you told me you didn't need me anymore  
Well you know I nearly broke down and cried  
When you told me you didn't need me anymore  
Well you know I nearly fell down and died!"_

Sherlock is aware of John's new tone of voice when he sang that stanza, those words. The camera is on him, not on his face, not as close as Sherlock wants now, but he can see sadness in him. John is not faking his voice, he's singing with his own now. The song continues and the people there continue cheering John and whistling, they are all happy.

When the song finishes, Sherlock sees Bertie taking John's hand and raising it on the air, and taking the microphone and declaring him the only winner of what looks like a free dinner for two. The camera moves from John and Bertie to the people in their seats and tables and they are all repeating John's name, saying how good singer he was and how funny his performance had been.

The video ends with John going back to his table and Molly giving him a warm and sincere hug.

Sherlock doesn't turn, but Molly knows there are tears in his eyes. He's still there, standing just in front of the screen even now the video is not on. She tells Bertie to leave them alone and he just nods and promises her he will get Sherlock a copy if he wants one.

"Sherlock... "

Molly takes Sherlock's hand and he hugs her, and buries his wet face in the curve of her neck, soaking her blonde hair. She hugs him back and the only thing Sherlock can think is _why_. Why she's there and not him. Why John sang to her and not to him. Why John took her out and not him. Why John hugged her and not him.

Maybe Sherlock shouldn't ask why Molly is there. Sherlock should ask what he had done to make John close to everyone but himself before dying. Why John chose Hamish, Mary, Molly, everyone but him.

But he already knows the answers, don't you, Sherlock?

John loved them, and he also loved Sherlock as well. And John loved Sherlock so much it hurt him, it hurt him to the point he needed to die to make Sherlock understand what he had lost.


	8. Sorrow

**CHAPTER VIII:**

**SORROW**

The corridors still seem endless due to the effect of the white painting. There are several wheelchairs ready for emergencies, ready for the fragile children, all of them are neatly positioned outside their rooms. The waiting room has been painted in a new shade, there's a rainbow painted on the widest wall, and there are new toys and books in the corner. There are some parents waiting, some children crying and playing, and the noise warms your heart. That noise is so full of life, so loving. You can't hate that noise.

John loved that noise, he loved that noise with all his heart. That noise, a mixture of crying and laughter, that's the same noise that made him study Pediatric Medicine. He loved children with all his heart, he had a special something that made them trust him, and that's one of the main reasons why they all loved John so much. That's also why he wanted to have children, he wanted to spend sleepless nights next to a crying baby. John longed to hear little feet walking and running along the flat, a tiny voice calling him _'Daddy'_. John wanted to read stories, prepare porridge, buy toys and hold a little child in his arms. However, life had obviously held something against him and his family, because when he wanted to have children, he discovered he was infertile. And when he put his hopes on the man in his life, John finally realised he would never have a child of his own.

He looked into every kind of information, and he even met a surrogate mother who was healthy and willing to give him the child he wanted. The equation was going to be complete with Sherlock's part, but one morning, as John held a plastic jar, Sherlock told him he was not going to collaborate, he was not going to give his sperm, that he was not born for that, and that the Holmes name was going to die with him and Mycroft.

_"I do not want a baby, I am not going to change my lifestyle just because you want one and I am definitely not going to give my sperm for it. You have to understand John, I do not want this in my life. I do not want to be a parent. I was not born for that."_

His old room, the one upstairs which John had cleaned to make into a nursery was filled again with boxes and old stuff. And John loved Sherlock so much, he gave up his dreams and hopes for him.

There are two nuns sitting next to each other. One of them has fallen asleep recently on the other nun's shoulder and her slight snoring amuses some of the children.

The lights are bright now, and from a window people can see, can observe, that it's almost nighttime.

Some nurses are leaving after finishing their shift and some other nurses have just arrived. All of them walk past and none seem to notice him. He can walk the place freely, with his hands held behind his back, John visits every room and every single one of his children. Most of them are sleeping, having had their special dinners and their medications. As John walks past their beds, he nods at each one and smiles when he remembers them, their names, their favourite tale, the nights he used to stay and tell them stories. John loved those nights, those nights in which their laughs and smiles filled his tired and wounded heart. For John, sometimes it was better to stay there and spend a sleepless night keeping an eye on them instead of sharing a cold bed with _him_.

Not just sometimes, but _always_. It was always preferable to be there, sleeping on a chair or studying or reading things he already knew about instead of facing Sherlock and his cruel self.

John sits in the chair at the end of the row of beds and wonders what his life would be like now if he had had the courage and had been brave enough to walk away and start a new life. He knows he could have just taken his things and gone away, maybe Sherlock would have never noticed until he realised there was no one washing the clothes, doing the shopping and cooking dinner. Until there was no one there to ignore. Another option is Mary. John could have accepted Mary and her sincere love. He could have accepted her, been part of a nice couple, and adopted Hamish. He could have had a new life, a new reason to wake up and smile every day. John could have had a reason, someone to fight for. However, John didn't love Mary, he cared for her, he really did and he still does, but he could have never have loved her as much as he loved Sherlock. And, knowing that, John could never have made Mary be with him, when he knew she could have a better life with someone who could really love her as much as she wanted him to.

And he knows he had second chance, when he was still alive.

John knows there was a second chance for him, there has always been one. And he also knows that he wasn't too cowardly, or stupid or fearful. John knows why he didn't do it, why he didn't take that second chance - because his life already had an owner and that owner was Sherlock Holmes. John's life, John's heart, John's being, everything John had, everything John possessed was Sherlock's. John gave Sherlock everything he owned and it was too late to have it back. It was too late to forget and to make a new start. It was too late because John didn't have anything. Everything he once gave Sherlock, is everything Sherlock threw away, without hesitating, without looking back, without asking John. There wasn't any back up, any way to go back in time, any way to ask for it, John lost it all.

Even his last hopes.

Many people warned him, many people told him to stay away, to try fishing, as John remembers certain police sergeant once told him. Sherlock once told him _"You may have noticed how extremes call to each other, the spiritual to the animal, the cave-man to the angel." _The victim and the murderer. John Watson and Sherlock Holmes.

Is it stupidity rather than courage to refuse to recognize danger when it is close upon you? Was it stupid of him to stay there and see, to feel and yet not do anything when the man John loved with all his heart was stabbing him in the same organ? It wasn't stupid when John _tried_.

John always knew what Sherlock was really like. John always knew about Sherlock's eagerness, Sherlock's true self, Sherlock's true colours. John knew Sherlock's brain has no limit, but that portion, that folder assigned to him had an expiry date. Since they started kissing, touching and since _'I love you's'_ left their mouths, John had always known that a day would come where he would have to live on his memories, because there wasn't going to be more than that; memories of old and reluctant touches, dry kisses and fake _'I love you's'_.

That love was bound to die, just like everything else that Sherlock Holmes touches. If John thought he was going to tear down that wall that protected Sherlock's heart, he was so wrong. If John thought he was going to exorcist Sherlock's poisonous self, he was so wrong. If John thought he was going to survive Sherlock Holmes, he was so wrong. No one lives long enough to tell you how things really are.

All the children are sleeping, and none of them seem to notice his tears and his weeping full of sorrow.

His regrets are many, and what he has to do tonight isn't the easiest thing to do, so when John enters the last room in which the one he's looking for is sleeping, he really wishes he could go back in time and leave Sherlock and that hell, have the life he wanted, with a family, a child, a dog and a reason to fight.

Now, when John sees Hamish sleeping, he wishes he had never met Sherlock Holmes. John wishes Sherlock was the one destined to die tonight, right now, and not Hamish. Right now, John is angry with life and destiny, the way that lives are destroyed. Now, John wishes he had the power to go back in time and walk away as soon as the first things happened, before he got caught by Sherlock and could never let him go.

John sits next to Hamish and caresses his pale cheek. The little boy has lost most of his curls and is extremely pale. He has lost weight as well, and he looks so fragile, so sad. It's impossible for John not to cry and hate this situation.

Hamish is helpless.

"Doctor Watson?"

John smiles and nods. He takes Hamish hands and strokes them, as he used to do back then whenever they saw each other.

"Hello Poppet."

Before John can say anything else, Hamish sits up and gives him a big and caring hug. Despite being and looking so skinny and fragile, Hamish hugs John strongly. And this doesn't surprise John at all.

"I missed you, Doctor Watson!"

"I missed you too, buddy. How do you feel?"

Hamish smiles "I'm feeling a bit ill, but I'm fine. The doctors say I'll get good soon. Michael died,"

John remembers Michael. He was a ten year old boy who had been sharing a room with Hamish when John died. In contrast to Hamish, he'd had a very nice family who who worked hard to give their son the best things in life and try to ease his way through his treatment]

"I know. But he's in a better place now, so no need to worry," explains John.

"Is he with you, in Heaven?"

John smiles "He's in a very nice place. Now tell me, have you been a good boy with the nuns and the nurses as I told you to?"

Hamish nods.

"And have you been taking care of Nurse Morstan too?" asks John with a grin.

The little boy nods again "Yes! She got me this jumper!"

Hamish points at the little knitted jumper resting at the end of his bed. It is blue, and John knows Mary knitted it for him.

"Wow, it looks pretty!" says John with genuine excitement.

Hamish nods eagerly "Yes! Nurse Morstan helped me to write you a letter, I was going to give it to you but doctors say I can't leave. I'm sorry Doctor Watson," says Hamish with genuine sadness and John shakes his head.

"It's OK, Hamish. Do you want to read the letter for me?"

"Okay," says Hamish and takes the envelope which was on the small table next to his bed.

The boy moves a bit and John sits next to him on the bed, his blue eyes following the written words as Hamish clumsily reads them, making a big effort to pronounce the words correctly.

Hamish asks him how he is, whether there are children who need his Help where he is now. He tells him he misses him lots, and that the nurses told him to send their love to him. Hamish also mentions that Mary told him he's in Heaven and that he's looking at them from there, and keeping them safe.

"I also met your bestest friend! He was nice, and he told me you also read him stories of the super detective. And he was very very tall and he had a coat like the detective too," reads Hamish and John nods.

The little boy continues reading his letter while John strokes his shoulder and smiles at some comments Hamish makes about the new doctors and some of the other children's behaviour.

"I miss you lots, Doctor Watson. Can you tell me when I will see you again? Love, Hamish."

Hamish turns to see John, and he looks at the tears in his blue eyes.

"Do you like the letter, Doctor Watson?"

John nods and kisses Hamish's cheek "I loved it, Hamish. Thank you."

"Nurse Morstan told me you'll love it. She misses you too,"

"I miss her too. I miss all of you -"

"But why you have to die, Doctor Watson?"

John sighs sadly and takes Hamish's hand "Because my heart was tired, Hamish."

"Your friend asked me why you died and I told him 'cause you were sad. You cried sometimes," says Hamish, and John nods a bit, remembering Sherlock and Hamish talking when the detective finally decided to visit his grave for the first and only time.

"I was a bit sad, yes," admits John.

"Why?"

John takes a deep breath "Because sometimes people feel sad about the things they can't fix. And I was sad because there was something I couldn't fix."

"Your heart?"

John nods "Yes, my heart, for example."

"But you're a Doctor!" Hamish bursts out, angrily and John is startled, not expecting the anger.

"Yes, Hamish, I'm a doctor, but I didn't have the cure," he explains, softly, trying to make the little boy understand.

Hamish looks sad "But you're here with me now! You can find a cure and come back and fix me and all the other kids!"

"Hamish, I can't find a cure and I can't come back. I'm dead, I'm sorry," says John, patiently and softly.

"But you promised! You promised you will be here, to help me with chemotherapy!"

This time Hamish is not angry, he's sad. And there are tears in his eyes and John can't stand it.

"I know I promised it, Hamish. I'm sorry," he replies, honestly.

The little boy looks at John confused. "So how come you're here?"

John won't tell him why he's here, sitting next to him. John will only tell him a story, and watch him sleep. Then, they will have all the time of the world to be together, as they used to be before.

"I'm here because I wanted to visit you. I missed you. Do you want me to tell you another story about the super detective Sherlock?"

Hamish smiles and for the first time, John sees a gleam on the little boy's eyes. Just as John always wished, he's sitting next to the boy who, in another life, could have been his son. The room, the bed, everything else, in another life, could have been his son's room. And this tale, in another life, could have been told by him and, in another life, this tale could have been pure fiction and imagination, not real life.

This little tale, in another life, could have been a tale intended to make his son fall asleep to wake up fresh the next morning.

But in this life, he's sitting next to his favourite patient, not his son. In this life, they are in a children's clinic room and not in a nursery room in his house or flat. In this life, this tale is real and not fiction.

And in this life, John is going to tell Hamish a little tale to make him fall asleep and die peacefully, without any pain and sadness in his heart and body.

"Yes yes yes! Can you tell me the one when the detective meets his friend? Please!" asks Hamish with puppy eyes and John frowns.

"The one in which Sherlock has to find the pink lady's suitcase?"

Hamish nods eagerly and John starts telling him the story.

The little boy is resting on the mattress now, and his bald head is on the pillow. John is sitting next to him on a chair.

"One day the famous detective Sherlock Holmes met his friend and companion -"

"John! His name was John! Like you!" says Hamish.

John nods "Yes! Sherlock Holmes met his friend and new companion John. Sherlock asked John if he could help him to find a suitcase that a lady in pink clothes lost. She was traveling to visit her daughter Rachel but she lost her suitcase in a cab. People had told the lady that in London there lived a very clever, good and nice detective called Sherlock Holmes who was able to solve any crime and catch all the bad guys in the city. When the lady asked Sherlock to find it, Sherlock and his best friend John ran around the dark streets of London looking for the suitcase -"

Hamish cuts John off "The suitcase was pink!"

"Yes, you remember it!" says John with a smile.

Hamish nods "I remember it because you said it was your favourite story,"

"It is," admits John and continues with the story "They looked for the suitcase but it was nowhere to be seen. So they went to their house and found the police there waiting to help them. But outside their house, there was a cab waiting for Sherlock!

Hamish looks up at John and sees the tears falling freely down his cheeks "Sherlock got in because he knew that it was the bad cabbie who took the pink lady's suitcase, so he went with him with the hope of getting the pink lady's missing suitcase. The bad cabbie took Sherlock to a dark place and tried to poison him, but his best friend John followed them,"

John sees how little Hamish yawns and starts closing his eyes, tiredly, slowly falling asleep.

"And he arrived just when the cabbie wanted to hurt Sherlock and John stopped him. The police arrived and the bad cabbie gave the suitcase back. Then, Sherlock and John realised they were very good friends and that they could be the next super heroes of London, and that they wanted to help the police and other people."

John sighs sadly, and weeps a little as he sees Hamish slowly falling asleep.

"Doctor Watson... I'm gonna die, right?" asks Hamish, weakly.

"Yes, Hamish. You're going to die."

The little boy smiles and nods, totally and fully accepting the facts, the inevitable. John cries next to him and caresses his pale forehead.

"Will you be with me?" asks Hamish with a small frown and there's a hint of panic in his voice.

John nods, and controls his sobs "I'll always be with you, I promise. Now go to sleep and have some rest, OK Poppet? You'll feel better, I promise."

"Pinky promise, Doctor Watson?"

Both John and Hamish make a pinky promise with their little fingers.

Hamish nods and closes his eyes.

John kisses his cheek and sobs.

* * *

When Mary arrives at the clinic, she immediately signs some papers off and goes straight to Hamish's room. The little boy's room is the last one along one of the white, endless corridors. He was sharing it with Michael, another little kid with cancer, but unfortunately he'd died a few days ago. Now Hamish is the only boy in that special room and today Mary's got him some nice flowers and hopefully they will change the air of that room, and make Hamish feel better.

Yesterday, Mary had had to administrate a very strong medicine and she was worried about Hamish. The treatment, the chemotherapy and all those invasive but sometimes promising procedures weren't helping at all, and instead of getting better, the little boy was getting worse.

Nevertheless, Mary never lost her hope and she wasn't going to give up.

"Morning Poppet! Time to wake up, young man," says Mary as she opens the curtains and the windows of the room. It's a very warm day, and today she wants to take Hamish out for a bit, before he has another chemotherapy session. The sun is shining brightly on her face while she puts the flowers on the table below the window.

When Mary turns and sees Hamish hasn't woken up yet, she smiles and tries to wake him by caressing his cheeks, but they are cold. Hamish's forehead, hands, arms, all his little and fragile body is cold and he's not breathing. Next to him, is John's letter, the same one she helped him to write. The envelope is open, and the letter is lying next to Hamish. He's wearing that blue jumper she knitted for him.

Mary cries when she realises Hamish is dead.

Hamish wasn't another patient. He wasn't another boy with cancer, he wasn't another helpless child and he wasn't just a boy. To Mary, Hamish was like her son, like the son she longs for so much. Hamish was her special little Poppet and she loved and cared for him with all her heart. Hamish was the child she used to wish was John's and hers. Hamish was the child that John and she used to keep an eye on.

Mary remembers her night shifts working with John, telling stories to the sleepless children, reading them tales together. They were like a big family, until John died. She also remembers Hamish telling her he wished she and John were his real parents, and she also remembers John saying Hamish was like the son he would never have.

Hamish didn't deserve it. The streets are full of criminals, mean and dangerous people. No one deserves cancer, and no one deserves the life Hamish had, but this is particularly unfair. It is unfair Hamish has to die. It is unfair that any small child has to die, but sometimes Mary thinks it's the best if they die without knowing and without experiencing the sadness and pain some people cause to others. Sometimes it's better when they haven't known resentment and hate.

Mary doesn't say a word when she sees Mycroft Holmes talking to the senior people in the clinic, and then when she sees his people taking Hamish's body. She doesn't say anything because she knows where they are taking Hamish's body - they are taking it to where it belongs. Hamish will rest next to the man who was his father in almost every way.

Hamish is buried next to John's grave, and on his gravestone, his name is engraved with the name he should have always had.

Hamish Watson.


	9. Broken Hearts

**Thanks to ****_librarianmum_**** for being amazing. Also, to ****_CowMow_**** for letting me use the name ****_The King's Arms_**** again. She wrote ****_The Violin Man_****, a very lovely and highly recommendable one-shot I think you should all read. It's amazing. **

**More notes at the end of this chapter.**

* * *

**CHAPTER IX:**

**BROKEN HEARTS  
**

It never occurred to Sherlock that when he met Hamish for the first time, the boy was already living the last days of his short life. It never occurred to Sherlock that the very moment he stepped into the clinic where John used to work, Mary Morstan would be there. It never occurred to Sherlock that today was the day that someone would judge him, someone would tell him what others had decided to keep to themselves. It never occurred to Sherlock Holmes that today he was going to meet someone who wasn't able to forgive him, no matter how hard she tried.

And it never occurred to Sherlock that today was the day he would have to face Mary Morstan and her pain.

Sherlock realises he knows very little about cancer, about life, about children and about Hamish.

In fact, Sherlock knows very little about everything when he steps in the children's clinic where John used to work, where Hamish used to live and where Mary is still working every day, fighting against life and destiny, saving children's lives or at least, trying to make them feel happy, comforting them in their last moments. But this will change as soon as Sherlock steps outside the clinic.

* * *

Mary Morstan is a very young pediatric nurse, but already her skills exceed the ones many older nurses have acquired during their long careers. Her natural attitude, that loving and caring attitude she has not only for children but for everyone is something she was born with, no one taught her how to care, how to love and how to cure and fix with a smile. A genuine smile.

Her job involves a constant fight against death and destiny. Mary's days are constant battles, and the clinic is a battlefield. However, her skilled hands don't hold machine guns but cotton, syringes, band aids, medicines and colorful "You have been brave!" stickers. Mary fights every single day, no matter what shift she's covering, and she never surrenders. Sometimes she wins those fights, most of the time she wins them and she receives something that's more than a medal. A smile. A smile on a child's face is everything Mary needs to feel happy again. A little smile is everything she gets and yet it's more than all the awards in the world. A smile after a long fight is like a nice, warm caress to her soul.

However, not everything about Mary's job involves death. It also involves colds, flu, chicken pox, some fevers, and smiles and lots of drawings from her patients. Mary's job involves a lot of paperwork to do, sometimes meals to prepare, tales to read before sleep time, and some arguments with over-worried parents now and then.

Another important part of Mary's job is being a mother. Her nursing degree sometimes isn't enough. Her license doesn't cover the hugs, the smiles, the stories, the walks around the park down the clinic, the tears and the fights against death. These are aspects of her role that no one taught her. No one told her how to tell stories, how to entertain a kid during an injection or other painful procedure, how to calm worried parents down and how to tell a small kid that he or she is about to die. No one taught her, no one prepared her for all that stuff. No one but John.

As soon as Mary got her license and started working, she was convinced she was doing everything wrong, that something was definitely wrong with her and her hands, they way she treated children and they way some parents talked to her when their children complained about her. After her first full day of work as a qualified nurse, she was in tears and something inside her told her she was not meant to do this. That she was useless and helpless. Mary cried, because after all that effort and after endless days studying to cure and fix children, all her hopes and dreams were in the bin.

_"Are you OK?"_

_Mary was standing outside the clinic, silently crying when she felt his voice close to her. She looked up, it was Dr. Watson. He was carrying a bag and his white coat was neatly folded over his arm. He had a very worried expression and there was a __frown creasing his brow__._

_"Yes, sorry -" Mary tried to lie, but John shook his head and gestured her __towards__ the nice coffee shop on the opposite street._

_Both walked in silence until they were sitting in front of each other, with two cups of tea __and a plate of biscuits on the table between them__._

_The waitress smiled at them when she placed the cups __on__ the table, and John cleared his throat__.__ "I was told a hot cup of tea fixes everything," __he __said __and smiled,__ "well, not everything, to be honest."_

_Mary smiled at the doctor's comment. There was something__ in__ Dr. Watson's blue eyes that calmed Mary. He was handsome. He wasn't tall, but his blondish, whitish hair and his kind smile made Mary feel comfortable with his presence. He was older than her, but she found him attractive__, even __though she __had__ only glanced at him a few times during her first day __at work._

_When Mary looked at his hands, his left hand taking the cup, she __saw__ a gold, polished ring.  
_

_"Thanks, Dr. Watson -"_

_John cut her off__.__ "John. Please, Mary, call me John."_

_John knew her name._

_"Today it was my first day. I... I thought it was going to be different. I thought I was going to be able to fix them, to make them feel better. But I can't do it," __she __explained as she __wiped away__ some tears._

_"You're new, that's all. It will take you some time, the kids don't know you yet, let alone some __of the __parents. But you can't say you can't do something when you haven't even tried__.__"_

_Mary sipped more of her tea and frowned "I've tried! But -"_

_"You haven't tried, Mary. I'm sure you will be the best, I know it. But you can't give up__,__" said John, very calmly, looking __straight in her__ eyes._

John promised to help her the next day.

After that day, Mary never gave up. She never cried anymore, unless it was after a long battle against death. After that day, Mary became the children's favourite nurse and John's right hand.

And after that day, Mary fell in love with John.

It was impossible not to, John was sweet, a gentleman, a very funny, honest man. John was handsome. John Watson was the kind of man she would have loved to introduce to her parents. John Watson was the man she wanted to be with for the rest of her life.

But Dr. Watson was married, and Mary was aware of it. And she was also aware she couldn't just step in between John and his wife.

John Watson became the man Mary knew she would _never_ have.

John looked so happy when he worked with the kids, when he helped them, when he fixed them, when he told them stories and when he signed off the papers than meant they were healthy again. John became a mystery Mary wanted to solve. Dr. Watson, as she saw him, was a puzzle, a mess of pieces, a complete wonder, a complete unsolved puzzle that Mary wanted to solve and own. His laughter, his smiles, his _everything_ was contagious. Yet, John never talked about his wife, about his children, if he had them. Mary took it for granted that he had them. He was quite a few years older than her, and if he was married, then surely he must have children.

Mary imagined John had a very happy life outside the clinic.

And Mary also wondered what John's wife looked like. She imagined he was married to a very beautiful woman, and that she was confident, that she was all smiles and charming. Mary imagined that John's wife was the happiest woman in the world, because she was married to him. Yes, John's wife must be the luckiest woman in the world, thought Mary. In her mind, in Mary's mind, she envied Mrs. Watson. Mary envied the position John's wife had, Mary envied John's wife for getting to sleep next to him every night, that she was the owner of his lips and of his body and of his love. Nurse Morstan wasn't like that, she knew it wasn't in her. She couldn't resent, envy and hate a woman just because she had the man that Mary wanted with all her heart. Mrs. Watson, John's wife, she couldn't have any faults.

Nevertheless, one day a fair-haired woman appeared and asked for Dr. Watson. Mary was in the reception, signing some papers off when she heard a very shy voice asking for John. As soon as it happened, Mary looked up and she met a blond, thin and shy woman. She was the complete opposite to Mary's image. Mary had imagined John's wife had a better taste when it came to clothes. This woman was wearing a pair of narrow blue jeans, comfy flat sandals and a blue shirt. Mary though John's wife would be different; she'd built an image of a perfect and confident woman in pencil skirts and high heels. However, this woman had a pony tail that kept her long and straight blond hair off her face, and she was wearing pink lipstick. She was beautiful, Mary thought. This woman was modest, and she also seemed to be honest, a woman of good heart. Just as John was. And it was obvious she was the kind of woman Dr. John Watson would have as a wife.

Nurse Morstan convinced herself this woman was John's wife.

Mary left and continued working. She was classifying some medicines when John waved his hand in farewell. She watched as John offered his arm to the blond woman, which she happily accepted and smiled. Both left the clinic, both looking happy and complete in each other's company.

John looked very happy with his wife.

On other days, the blond woman would come, ask for Doctor Watson and wait for him. Then, John would get ready, say bye to the children, all the nurses and the other doctors and to Mary, and then he would kiss the woman's cheek, sometimes give her a flower and then they would happily leave the place together, walking side by side, sometimes with their arms entwined.

It turned out that woman wasn't John's wife.

It turned out John wasn't married to a woman, but to a man. And that man wasn't any other than Sherlock Holmes. The famous detective Sherlock Holmes was John's husband. Mary heard a few rumors along the corridors of the clinic, but she preferred to ignore them. But curiosity always gets to people, and there she was, in the loneliness of her flat, opening a Google window and searching for _"Sherlock Holmes and John Watson"_.

Sherlock Holmes was a famous detective who solved the most complicated cases that threatened the safety of London, one of the most cosmopolitan cities of the world. She remembered him, and the headlines of several papers with his named printed on them, saying he was a fake and that he committed suicide. She also found the headlines of his back to life. And Mary also found John's name printed next to Holmes'. She learned John was Sherlock's assistant, his friend, that he once was John "Bacherlor" Watson, who once fought for the Queen and for his country.

Still, Mary knew there was something else. Mary thought the blond woman who came and asked for John, the same woman who entwined her arm with John's was his lover. Mary thought Doctor Watson wasn't happy at home and that he didn't love his husband, the famous Detective Sherlock Holmes. John never mentioned him, he never had to, but it was strange, a total mystery. If John didn't love him, why would he keep a lover? Why would he cheat on his husband? Doctor John Watson wasn't like that, he wasn't that kind of man, unfaithful and mean. John Watson was honest, he was sincere. Mary still couldn't believe it.

Mary envied that blond woman's position. She wasn't that pretty, Mary knew she could make John happy, happier than staying with the other woman maybe. Mary thought she could offer John endless happiness and love. John wouldn't need to stay with her, he could have her and then leave whenever he needed to. But those thoughts were only deep buried in her head. Mary Morstan knew she would never be able to do that in reality.

Now knowing John wasn't married to a woman but to a man, Mary still believed she could never break a marriage.

Even when she was hopelessly in love with John.

One afternoon after working together during the same shift, John invited Mary to The King's Arms, a famous pub close to the clinic, with the famous blond woman. Her eagerness and curiosity to know more about the man she loved and his alleged lover made Mary accept the invitation without hesitating. That afternoon, John walked by her side. He told her about Bertie, the owner and bartender of the pub and how peaceful and lovely the place was. Mary listened at him carefully and smiled at every joke John did.

When they arrived, the blond woman was already there, sitting on a very nice table on a corner. She smiled at them as soon as she saw them enter the pub.

_"Hi Molls, how are you?" asked John as he kissed the woman's cheek._

_She smiled fondly at him "Hello John, I'm fine, you?"_

_"Great, lovely to see you again. Please, meet Mary Morstan, the best nurse __in __the world," said John looking at Mary "Mary, please meet Molly Hooper, an old friend."_

_Both women shook their hands and Mary felt a __warmth__ coming from Molly Hooper. She seemed to be shy and clumsy, even when she was playing visitor. Even when she seemed to be, to Mary's point of view, John's owner._

_"You're very famous here, you see. John can't stop talking about his favourite nurse," said Molly, mockingly and John grinned._

_Mary blinked once, twice, not knowing whether __the woman__ was lying or not._

_John smiled, genuinely "She's the best nurse."_

_Molly told Mary she was a __pathologist__ and that she worked at Bart's. She also confessed she had been John's friend for years._

_Mary felt secure, she felt confident and she felt Molly Hooper was indeed a very nice and honest woman, just like John was. All those thoughts about her being John's lover disappeared, and Mary was now convinced Molly was John's friend. And they got on well, very well. So well __that__ Mary even confessed __that __she __had __thought Molly was John's wife. However, Mary kept Sherlock Holmes' name to herself, she didn't mention she knew he was married to a man and that she knew that man's name was Sherlock Holmes. __She__ wanted to know if John was going to say it himself._

_Molly laughed, so did John._

_"You're not the only one, almost everyone thinks we're together don't they, John?" said Molly and John nodded._

_"But you're married," __stated__ Mary and John nodded once again._

_They felt into a very awkward silence. Mary saw Molly was now sipping at her drink with a very sad look on her eyes, looking everywhere else. John forgot his pint and his eyes were focused on the telly and the football match most of the clients were watching. Mary regretted her words, she regretted them with all her heart._

_"I'm married to a man__," e__xplained John, sipping more of his pint, breaking the awkward and painful silence._

As Mary predicted, John didn't mention his husband's name, Sherlock Holmes. And something told her that things weren't easy at home. Or maybe John wanted to keep it private. If that was the case, Mary knew John shouldn't feel ashamed, or anything like it. It was very common in this world to find gay men, and she didn't care, she wasn't going to stop talking to him just because he was married to man.

Mary wanted to convince herself John was a happy man, that her thoughts were only thoughts, speculations, that she was completely wrong.

They continued talking about the weather, politics, sports, some telly shows and little else.

It was late when the three of them were outside on the streets, and John invited both women to the movies. Mary was shy, even when it didn't look like they minded her coming along, and she declined the offer. Molly accepted and they waited for Mary to get a cab and then they left.

Mary cried that night.

The days of loving John Watson became endless days, weeks, months and years.

Every day was harder than the previous one. It was harder when John was so close to her, when he was such a good friend in whom Mary could sometimes confide about life problems or discuss banal things like furniture or wallpapers, or sometimes talk about work. There were days in which Mary had to fight against her own instincts. They shared almost all their shifts, and when they didn't, Mary felt very lonely. But the days they had to work side by side, those days were the most difficult ones. Mary wanted to kiss him, she wanted to touch him, she wanted to tell him how much she loved him and how much she was willing to give up for him, only for him.

They became very good friends. Now and then, Mary would join him and Molly at The King's Arms for a drink after a long day's work. She would share John and Molly's jokes, their old stories and some new anecdotes would be born in that nice table in the corner of the pub.

And one day, Mary learnt that sometimes she was the only one listening.

It was a rainy day when John told her an anecdote about his days in the Army. He told her about his wounded shoulder, his limp, about his dead sister. He told her almost everything about him, but he never mentioned _him_, John never mentioned Sherlock Holmes. Every time John talked about his past, and no matter if the anecdotes were funny and happy, John looked sad, very sad. John looked as if he missed the past.

Dr. Sarah Sawyer, the doctor in charge of the medical staff, assigned John a very nice office and Mary helped him with it. She got him nice posters for children, a lovely vase to put some flowers in, a big plate to put some lollipops in for the kids and a colorful frame to put a photo in.

_"Thanks Mary, you shouldn't have," said John, smiling fondly at her._

_"I'm glad you __like__ them, John."_

The next day, Mary looked at the frame. It had a picture of John and Sherlock Holmes, his husband. Both were together, smiling. Mary learnt that picture was old, because John looked younger, so full of life.

And the John she knew looked old, tired, almost dead.

The day Mary arrived at the clinic and found John carrying a little ill child in his arms, Mary wanted to cry. As a nurse, Mary had seen John carrying a lot of kids everyday, it was something very common. But today John wasn't carrying another kid. John was carrying a very ill, tiny, sad boy named Hamish.

_"Hamish, she's Nurse Morstan, one of the best nurses and my friend. We will always be with you and we'll make you feel better," explained John __to__ the silent crying child __in __his arms. The boy, with dark curls and blue eyes had his face buried __in__ John's chest and he continued __crying silently__, while John rubbed his little back, reassuring him he was going to be OK, that he shouldn't be afraid of cancer. That they were going to help him to fight it._

_When Hamish was finally calm and asleep on one of the clinic's bed, John told Mary about him._

_"I met Hamish at the __children's home__. I was doing my __practical experience__ to get my __specialist paediatric qualification__ when I got to know him. He always looked so healthy, so good. He was very little, yet so brave. I can't believe he has cancer," __he __explained, fighting back __his own__ tears._

_Mary was standing next to him. They were __in__ the clinic's little kitchen. John was making some tea, and Mary was so close she wanted to hug him, Mary wanted to touch him and kiss him._

_"Will he be OK?"_

_John sighed "I don't know, we'll have to wait and see how his body reacts to the medicines. His cancer has advanced, not as much as to say he can't recover, but enough __that we need to keep a careful eye__ on him and be alert to any change," __he __explained__. His voice was soft but full __of concern._

_"We can do it, John. I know we can."_

_John placed a hand over hers and smiled._

From that day, John and Mary became the parents that Hamish had never had. They helped him everyday with the medicines, the tests, and they also helped him to get used to his new life at the clinic. John had to explain to Hamish he couldn't live at the children's home with the other kids because he was ill, but he promised him that he and Mary would be with him, so he didn't feel alone.

When the day was warm and sunny, they would take Hamish to the little park outside the clinic. They will walk with him, side by side, each of them taking one of the little boy's hands and it felt perfect. Sometimes they would have lunch or dinner with him, depending on their shifts and they would also tell Hamish stories before bed.

It felt perfect. It felt perfect because Mary lived every moment with them as if they were her real family. In those days, Mary would live a fantasy. On those days, John wasn't another work mate, he was her husband. In those days, Hamish wasn't another patient, he was their son.

During those days, they were like a real family. During those days, it felt perfect and_ real_.

_"I wish you were my dad and my mum," said Hamish one day while John and Mary were checking on him_

_John almost dropped the stethoscope he was holding and Mary only smiled._

_"Why __can't you__ be my parents?" __asked__ Hamish._

_Mary spoke first__.__ "Because Dr. Watson and I are __just__ friends, and he's already married."_

_"That's why you have a ring? Because one of the nuns told me that men and women wear a ring when they are married, and you have one," __asked__ Hamish pointing at John's ring._

_"Yes,"_

_Hamish looked at him confused "Is she pretty?"_

_John took a deep breath and looked at the ceiling, moving his blue eyes __from__ side to side, mimicking Hamish's gestures when he tried tor remember something. "She's very pretty. She's tall, she has dark and curly hair. And her eyes are grey like the cloudy sky, and she works with a microscope doing experiments all day long," replied John with a fake smile and Hamish nodded._

_"She __does__ experiments? That's cool!"_

_"Yep, she wants to find a cure so people don't get ill," lied John and Mary continued checking on __Hamish's__ blood pressure and taking down notes._

_Hamish smiled "She must be very nice,"_

_John didn't say anything at that comment._

_"__Do you__ have babies, Doctor Watson?" __asked__ Hamish._

_John shook his head "My wife can't have babies__.__"_

_"Why?"_

_"She just can't, but that doesn't matter, because you're like a son to me, Hamish," explained John, softly and Mary pretended she wasn't listening._

In the privacy of their moments alone between patients, John had told Mary he wanted to adopt Hamish.

_"I wish that more than anything in this life,"_

_Mary passed John more papers he needed to sign off__.__ "Why don't you do it? It will be a hell of __a lot of __paperwork to do, but Hamish __would __be very happy,"_

_John shook his head, tiredly__.__ "Hamish is the son I'll never have."_

...

A few days later, Mary found John and Sherlock's picture in the bin. The frame she once got for him has a new picture; a picture of John, Hamish and Mary, all together, smiling happily. It was taken the day of John's birthday, the day all the staff at the clinic surprised him with a cake, the children with their own birthday cards and their drawings.

It was a very nice day when John invited Mary to join him and Molly once again in The King's Arms. It was a Friday night, and John told her it was a karaoke night.

Mary apologised and said she couldn't go.

She later found out about John's special skill for singing.

...

The last week of his life, John seemed to be very happy. He continued working as always, treating kids, calming down some worried parents, and doing all the things he usually did. A few weeks before, he had been named as doctor in charge of the Pediatric wing. Mary was proud. She hugged him tightly and buried her face on his neck. She exhaled that scent, that typical scent of Doctor John Watson, and John rubbed her back. She told him how proud she was and John told her if it wasn't for her, he wouldn't be as good a doctor as he was.

It was a Friday and Doctor Watson had the weekend off. As soon as his shift finished, John walked along the endless corridors and visited all the children. He told them a new story about the Super Detective Sherlock and told them to behave and be nice to the nurses and doctors. The last room he visited was Hamish's.

Nurse Morstan had to check on him again, Hamish was going to face chemotherapy any moment soon, and he needed to be checked on all the time.

_"Promise me you'll be a good boy __for__ the nuns, the nurses and the doctors. Can you promise me that, Hamish?" asked John as he placed a hand over the little boy's forehead, __making sure__ Hamish didn't have __a __fever._

_The ill boy nodded "I promise,"_

_"And promise me you'll take care of Nurse Morstan too,"_

_Mary laughed and Hamish nodded again__.__ "I promise I'll take care of her, Doctor Watson. Will you help me with chemotherapy?"_

_John took __his time__ to answer, but he smiled__.__ "Yes Hamish, I promise."_

_"Pinky promise?" asked Hamish holding his pinky finger on the air. John joined him._

_"Pinky promise. Now, time to sleep. Good night, Hamish. I love you__,__" said John as he kissed him on the cheek._

_Hamish kissed him too__.__ "Good night, Doctor Watson. I love you too."_

That day, before leaving the clinic after finishing his last shift, John kissed Mary's cheek and told her to stay safe and take care of Hamish. Mary nodded and told him to have a great weekend. It was strange, John never kissed her cheek, he always waved his hand or just murmured a "good bye", but he had never kissed her, and never told her to stay safe and to take care of Hamish. was obvious, she would always take care of Hamish while he wasn't working, while it was his day off or during his holiday. But that day, it was different. John talked as if it was the last time he would see them, John acted as if it was his last day in this world.

Mary looked at John while he walked away, and wondered if something was going on.

The following Monday, people told her Doctor John Watson was dead.

* * *

Mary is inside John's old office. No one has occupied it since he had died.

The only things left are John's old desk and the plate she got him to put some lollipops over, they are dusty, as is the floor. Mary opens the curtains and lets the sun get inside, she lets the sunshine light up the dark room. Despite smelling that awful smell, Mary can still feel John's scent, John's presence in that office. The room is nothing like it used to be. The colorful and nice walls are now bare. The last poster left, the one about the solar system has disappeared.

The nurse opens one of the desk drawers, and she finds the frame with that picture of her, Hamish and John. Mary's hands shake when she takes the frame and she smiles, remembering those moments with John and Hamish. How Mary wishes John had been her husband, the love of her life. How she wishes Hamish had been her son, their son. How Mary wishes they were still there, with her. How she wishes she could have told John about her feelings, about her dreams. Maybe she could have convinced him to walk away with her, be happy and adopt Hamish together.

Mary's fingertips dance over their smiling faces. Hamish is smiling happily, God, Mary misses him so much. So much it hurts. John is also smiling, his pale cheeks are pink and he's showing his perfect teeth. Mary loved that smile.

But the sunshine, the warm light coming from the streets, the memories, the wishes, the regrets, all of them seem to disappear when Mary hears _his_ voice calling her name.

"Miss Morstan."

She looks up, she looks at the owner of that deep baritone voice and Mary wants him to disappear, to go away, to die and to never come back.

Sherlock Holmes is standing on the doorway.

Mary's throat goes dry, there are tears in her eyes and she runs a hand over her blonde hair. The detective walks inside; he's now standing very close to her, and she takes two steps backwards. Mary's eyes scan his figure. Sherlock Holmes looks thin and fragile. He's pale, very pale, and he wears dark clothes. He has a blue scarf tightly pressed against his neck. Those dark curls are a bit of a mess and she can see some white hairs mixed between the dark ones. Sherlock's grey eyes are pale. His cheekbones are sharp and Mary fears him. This Sherlock Holmes doesn't look like the defiant man she used to read about in old newspapers. Sherlock Holmes now looks like nothing.

"What are you doing here?" she asks firmly.

Mary can feel those famous and deductive eyes on her, scanning her figure. She doesn't know if she's ready for this. But a few seconds that feel more like hours to Mary pass by, and she wants to scream. She begs for John to come back and rescue her. Inwardly, Mary asks John to come back and stop him, she asks John to make Sherlock Holmes go away - to never come back again.

Inwardly, Mary asks John to protect her.

"I asked you, what are you doing here?" Mary asks again and Sherlock closes his eyes. He blinks once.

Sherlock hesitates for a moment "I wanted to see Hamish."

A heavy tear falls down Mary's cheek "Leave. Please, leave."

"I need to see him -"

"LEAVE! You have no right to be here, leave!" shouts Mary. Sherlock doesn't look surprised.

Sherlock's deductive eyes has seen a lot by just looking at her. Mary Morstan is a woman who is to her work, to the children and specially to John and Hamish. He doesn't blame her.

But he's determined. "Who are you to ask me to leave? You -"

"Hamish died," says Mary as she starts crying again.

Tears are now falling freely down her face and she sobs. Sherlock doesn't know what to do. The nurse has both hands covering her face and the frame is left on the desk. Sherlock takes it and looks at the picture. He runs his fingertips over John's smiling, happy face. He has finally found a picture of John looking genuinely happy.

"When?"

"A few weeks ago. He died while sleeping," she explains.

"I didn't know. I apologise,"

Mary stops crying. She manages to stop her tears and wipe her face dry. As soon as she sees Sherlock holding her picture, she thinks she's going to explode. Suddenly, all the hate, all the resentment, all the bad feelings she has inside explode and now no one is going to stop her from telling the truth.

"What are _you_ doing here?"

Sherlock sighs "I told you I wanted to see Hamish."

"But _why_?" asks Mary as she snatches the photo from Sherlock's hand "Why come here now? Why today? Hamish is dead. And if he wasn't, I wouldn't have let you see him -"

"You couldn't have stopped me. You're not his mother. You are nothing to him."

Sherlock's words are heavy and Mary cries, even when she doesn't want to. If Sherlock can be harsh, so can she.

"Don't you _dare _to talk to me like that! Maybe I wasn't Hamish legal mother, but I was as good as, so was John. _We_ were his parents and believe me, if he was here as well, he wouldn't have let you see him."

After a few seconds of silence, Sherlock replies, "Just because you got to work with John, it doesn't give you the right to talk for him. You were _nothing_ to him, just a simple woman with a crush, a nurse, and I _am_ his husband. He would have never left me for you. John would have never loved _you_ as much as he loved _me_."

Mary places the picture on the desk. She turns the photo so Sherlock can't see it "OK, you're right about one thing. I'm just a nurse he worked with, John would have never left you for me and he would have never loved _me_ as much as he loved _you_. But you're wrong about something."

Sherlock frowns. "Am I wrong? Wrong about what?"

"I wasn't _nothing_ to him, like you said. I was his friend, one of his closest friends. I knew John. And _I_ knew him better than _you_ did."

The detective opens his mouth, about to say something, but then he stops. He looks at Mary again, from head to toes and inside his mind, he gets ready to deduce her and spill the facts out, just as he used to do when he wanted to hurt someone. Sherlock is not going to let this woman get in his way. He's not going to let her cry a single tear more for _his_ John. She has no _right_ to cry for him. She was _nothing_. She's nothing, Sherlock thinks.

"Pediatric nurse, Mary Morstan. Thirty, natural blonde hair, green eyes, you live alone. You're from Essex, came here to study and finally decided to stay. London excited you, and despite the fact that you can hardly pay off your bills in time, you won't move back to Essex or any other place. Why? You were engaged before coming to London. You didn't leave him, _he_ left _you_. The fact you want to stay here suggest you get easily attached to people. Children most likely, that's the main reason why you decided to study pediatric medicine, but it was too hard for your little and weak brain -"

"Stop it, please -"

"- so you finally become a nurse, easier. And because several doctors told you you can't have children on your own -"

"STOP IT!"

" - then you started working here, you met John. You liked him since the first moment, but you knew he was married. Your crush was obvious to everyone but to John. You are a woman of strong morals, you would never break a marriage, that's why you decided to stay and be John's friend. Better _that_ than nothing, isn't that right? You preferred John looked at you as a friend at least than as nothing at all."

Mary strides up until she's close to Sherlock, very close, just a few inches away from him, and she slaps him, hard across the face. Sherlock doesn't turn his face. He only places a cold hand over his red cheek and remains silent.

"I told you to stop it."

"You loved him," says Sherlock, but it's only a mere whisper.

Nurse Morstan nods. She's crying again, and she can't stop doing so. She takes John's photo and turns it again, so Sherlock can see it.

"I loved him with all my heart, Mr Holmes. He taught me everything I know. He was my only friend. Hamish and John were my family, they were all I had," she admits.

Sherlock nods and looks at her. He still doesn't know how he can look into her eyes without turning away. Watching Mary crying, being sad because of John's absence makes his heart ache inside his chest. Sherlock understands her. He has cried and cried, and he knows his tears, no matter how many they are, they won't bring John back.

"You don't know how much I envied you. How much I wanted to be in your place and be the one holding John's hand, being the one who had his love, his heart and his lips. I envied you because you got to love him and be loved by him. You don't know how much it hurt me to know he would _never_ be mine and that he would always be yours. That he would never see _me_ as he saw _you_. That he would never be with me, no matter how hard I tried."

Sherlock offers her a tissue, and Mary takes it. "_I_ envied _you_, Miss Morstan. In the last two years before John's death I stopped holding his hand. I _didn't _take his love, his heart, his lips as you said I did. I was loved by him, but I couldn't love him as much as he wanted me to. I killed him without knowing it and you can't possibly imagine how much it hurts me to know he will never be here again. Not only with me, but with you as well. With the children, with Molly, with his friends. I know now that my actions didn't only affect _me _but a lot of people, because John loved all of them. John loved you, Miss Morstan. Maybe not like you may have wanted him to, but he _did_ love you."

Mary nods and wipes away her tears, surprised by Sherlock's soft tone of voice.

There's a silence and neither of them want to break it first. Mary remains in her position close to the window while Sherlock stands there, in front of her, with both hands inside his coat pockets. He looks at the picture of them, and silent tears fall from his grayish and bloodshot eyes. Mary can see marks of stitches on both of his wrists and she understands.

"John never mentioned you. I looked you up on the Internet, that's how I knew you were his husband. I also knew he wasn't happy, he had sad eyes and sometimes he cried when he thought no one was looking. I've never tried it, but believe me, Mr Holmes, I would have never made John walk away from you. I thought about it, I wanted to make him mine and to take Hamish with us - the little one wanted us to be his parents," she admits, with a sad smile, remembering that day, "but even if I thought about it, I would have never done it. And John would have never loved me. _He_ loved _you_. He was _yours._"

"He really wanted that?" asks Sherlock.

Mary frowns. "Wanted what?"

"Hamish. He really wanted you and John to be his parents?"

The nurse smiles and tells Sherlock about the day Hamish told her and John he wanted them both to be his parents.

"John told him he was married to a tall, dark haired and grayish eyed woman who worked with a microscope doing experiments to find a cure so people don't get ill," explains Mary and Sherlock smiles sadly, just a little.

"Hamish told me you were the _bestest_ nurse."

Mary nods.

"And he also told me about the stories John used to tell them, about the Super Detective," says Sherlock and this time, he smiles fondly at the blonde nurse.

To his own surprise, Mary smiles back and nods. "We were running out of stories, we had told them all the stories we knew, so one day John told them a story of a Super Detective named Sherlock Holmes who had to find a pink suitcase for a lady who lost it in a cab. When he mentioned that Sherlock had a very good friend and companion, Hamish asked him to name Sherlock's friend John, like him,"

A very awkward silence falls between them. Mary seems to wait for Sherlock, she can feel Sherlock has something to say, but he's struggling with it. Mary sees Sherlock determined to say something else, to get something off his chest.

"I told John to die, I told him I'd be happy if he was dead. I almost hit him and I can't forget his eyes asking me not to do it, begging me. I deleted everything about him, and I want to remember, I need to remember him and I _can't_. But when I want to delete that day, John's last day in which I almost hit him, I can't."

Mary looks at him, sadly. "Mr Holmes..."

"I wanted to see _you_ and Hamish because I needed to apologise. I needed to say _I'm sorry_, because I killed him. I killed John and I ignored you. I ignored the fact that many people loved John. John wasn't only mine, John was yours, was Hamish's, Molly's, John was everyone's and I was selfish. I know... I know John wanted to adopt Hamish, there were papers, but I never wanted children. So he didn't go ahead with it for my sake, he chose to give me the satisfaction of not having children around me just as I liked it, instead of making me choose to adopt Hamish and give him the family he deserved. I wanted to see Hamish and apologise - because of me, he was alone. Because of me he died alone -"

Mary takes Sherlock's hand and cuts him off. "Hamish didn't die alone, he's with John now."

"What do you mean?"

"Hamish was buried next to John's grave. They engraved his stone with his name, with John's name. Hamish Watson," explains Nurse Morstan and Sherlock closes his eyes.

"I'm sorry, Miss Morstan. Please, forgive me. I'm sorry," he says, firmly, almost begging. Mary looks at his eyes and sees the genuine regret Sherlock Holmes is not lying, he's honestly sorry. And something in his grayish eyes makes Mary remember John.

John's blue eyes were like Sherlock's. Honest, deep and sincere. Also sad and bloodshot. Both of them cried when no one was watching and Mary feels all that hate, all that resentment she once felt for Sherlock Holmes, fading away. It's all gone now. Mary Morstan feels John's presence close, she can smell his scent, and she realises she doesn't feel anything against Sherlock Holmes, the man who killed John, her Doctor John Watson. What she feels now is pity and compassion. She doesn't feel like stabbing Sherlock, but like hugging him.

Mary forgives Sherlock.

"I can't hate you, and I can't judge you any more."

Sherlock lets out a heavy sigh and wipes his tears off his face.

"And you were right."

"Right about what?"

Mary looks at him "I was engaged to a man who was nothing like John. He left me because he knew something about me and he didn't forgive me, even when it wasn't my fault. I'm a pediatric nurse because I'm not clever enough to be a pediatrician, a real doctor. Yes, I decided to be John's friend, that's always better than nothing and yes, I can't have children on my own, that's why my fiancé left me and that's why I adore children so much."

"I'm sorry," says Sherlock, genuinely.

"It's the truth. It shouldn't hurt me,"

After a few seconds, Sherlock glances at the stethoscope hanging from Mary's neck. "That's John's stethoscope."

Mary looks down at the stethoscope confused and then nods. "Yes, I took it from his grave, I'm sorry, you should be the one keeping it, and the photo -"

Before Mary takes the stethoscope and the photo to hand them both to him, Sherlock stops her. "Those are yours. They are part of your memories, I can't have them. And I'm sure John would be happier if you have them."

She knows there's no point fighting Sherlock Holmes, and she accepts them back, gratefully.

Sherlock takes a last look at the room and nods. He looks at every corner, every bare wall, the desk, the photo and then back at Mary and turns to leave. He's not sure if he will ever come back to that place, if he will ever see Mary again. Sherlock doesn't even know if he will see the sunlight after tonight. What Sherlock Holmes is almost completely sure of is that he wants to see John again, and he'd better do something about it soon, because his absence, John's absence is _unbearable_.

Before he leaves, Mary reaches out to touch his arm and asks him to stay a little longer.

"John once told me that a hot cup of tea fixes everything," she says, with a reassuring smile and Sherlock nods.

Sherlock waits for her, and a few minutes later, they are walking side by side, heading to the coffee shop Mary and John used to go to. A part of Sherlock is at peace now.

_Let's see how long it lasts._

* * *

**Author's note: Once, one of my professors told me if I had to explain a character, a chapter, a sentence, or a whole book, something was not working. He explained to me that maybe I was doing something wrong; or I wasn't being clear, or maybe my story was so amazing the readers or the spectators weren't able to understand it. **

**I think the former suits this situation better. I decided to let Mary forgive Sherlock because she isn't the kind of woman who would hold resentment. If you read this chapter carefully, you'll see Mary always kept herself back, she never tried to make John walk away from Sherlock.**

**On the other hand, this fic is reaching a certain and very important point. Maybe I shouldn't be writing this, maybe I'm going ahead some reviews, if there's going to have any, but I wanted to be clear, just in case someone asks why Mary forgives Sherlock, even when maybe she was the one who had more reasons to not to do so, since she loved John more than a friend would do. Anyway, reviews are always welcome and I'll take the time to reply, as I always do.  
**

**Love, A.  
**


	10. Her help, His wish

**CHAPTER X:**

**HER HELP, HIS WISH  
**

Mary Morstan had told Sherlock that John once told her a cup of tea fixes everything. A cup of tea didn't fix all, but a part of it - a part of the emptiness and his sorrow and despair - disappeared for a moment. For the exactly fifty two minutes that they shared together, Sherlock felt that Miss Morstan had taken off his shoulders a heavy weight that was threatening to kill him at any moment. Her sincere and modest smile, her warm and reassuring words, the way Mary talked to him, the way she understood him and the way she seemed to open her heart to him helped Sherlock see a bit of light before the night fell again.

The waitress smiled at both of them as soon as she saw them taking what looked to be Mary's usual table, near the window. It was a very modest and cozy coffee shop. It was the kind of place a Holmes would never be seen, would never visit unless it was for the sake of a case, or for the sake of the country.

Sherlock didn't really want anything, but before he was able to say so, Mary asked for Earl Gray tea and chocolate biscuits. She told Sherlock those were John's favourite cookies.

The consulting detective devoured them all.

"He brought me here one afternoon after our shifts finished," said Mary, looking at the tall man in front of her. "It was my first shift, my first day at work after I got my license. My hands were shaking when I tried to inject a kid and the mother complained about me. I swallowed my tears until I left, until I was just there," the blond nurse pointed at the front street of the clinic**.** "I couldn't stop crying, and that's when John saw me and we came here."

Sherlock nodded and let her continue her story, even when he was able to deduce all the facts. Mary's words, the way she talked about John made Sherlock's heart ache inside his chest. The way she blinked, the way she seemed to catch her breath before talking, before mentioning John's name, the way she drank her tea and the way she looked at him told Sherlock everything he needed to know. Mary Morstan was nothing he had initially thought about her. That woman looked as common and as boring as he would probably have found her if the circumstances had been different. She was short, she had blond, natural, straight hair. Her eyes were big and green, her eyelashes were painted with dark mascara and she had pink and healthy cheeks. Sherlock looked at her hands, they seemed to be warm and soft, just like John's hands once were. He could also tell when someone was lying, when someone had hidden intentions, or when someone was not completely honest. But she was the exact opposite of what he'd imagined. Mary Morstan was honest and sincere, there was no hidden cruelty, no sinfulness. Mary Morstan was pure.

In other words, nurse Mary Morstan was the woman John should have been with. She was the woman John had deserved. Mary was the woman John would have loved to be with, to have children, a dog, a nice house and maybe a car. Sherlock still found it to be a cliché - the children, the house, the dog and the car - boring and pedestrian. But now, it was all he wanted to have. Sherlock wanted all of it, all of it, just as long as John was included. But destiny had other cards for them, and John, instead of having a nice and lovely woman next to him, a woman willing to give him as much love as he wanted, as many children as he wanted, as many caresses and soft kisses as he wanted, destiny gave John a man named Sherlock Holmes, willing to give him as much danger as he wanted, as many wounds as his body was able to endure, as much loneliness and as many fake kisses and fakes _"I love you's"_ he wanted. Or as much and as many things as Sherlock _wanted_ to give him.

"How do you live, Miss Morstan? How do you live without_ him_?" Sherlock asked after a long silence fell between them. Their cups were empty, the sun had sunk and the streets lights were flickering on.

Mary looked down at his hands. Sherlock's fingers were entwined on the table, and he was wearing a ring, a gold, polished ring. It looked just like the one John wore. And she felt she was back again to _that _day, the day in which she cried because she felt her dreams being torn apart and thrown in the bin. But the roles had changed, she was now in John's position and she wasn't facing herself but a broken and hopeless Sherlock Holmes. They were two people who loved the same man, and even if you think Sherlock always had the advantage over her because John loved him and only him, you're wrong. No one had the advantage in this situation.

Mary told Sherlock the words he would never forget.

"It takes time. It takes time to get used to someone's empty chair, to his empty place on the bed, to the silence instead of his laughter and the softness of his voice. But you can't give up. You can't say you can't live without him, because you haven't even tried, Mr Holmes."

Tears fell down Mary's eyes.

"It's been more than a year and you say I haven't even tried? He is _my_ husband, you are the one who can't talk about getting used to -."

Mary reached out for Sherlock's hand and caressed it. "You're right, it's been more than a year, but you have your whole life ahead of you. And John would have liked you to move on, carry on with your work, with your life, wouldn't he?" she asked with a reassuring smile.

Sherlock remembered John's last words in his letter.

_"Continue working, the world needs your cleverness. London needs you."_

And Mary continued, "I've lost my fiancé. I know what it's like to lost someone you love, I know what it is like when you can't do anything to bring someone back. And maybe you think it is different because he left me, he didn't die like John. But I loved him as much as you loved John, and it's hard. It takes time."

The blond woman ignored Sherlock's words. She ignored the tone of his voice and she ignored Sherlock continued using _present tense_ when he referred to himself as John's husband.

She sat next to Sherlock and allowed him to cry - not only by her side, but in her arms.

* * *

It doesn't matter what he thinks about, Sherlock can't sleep. The bed feels so big, so cold, so empty. Next to him lays one of John's old jumpers and Sherlock is lying on his back. He looks at the ceiling and wonders how many nights John spent looking at the same point, night after night, when he was alive, when he used to sleep next to him.

Sherlock asks himself why he hated John, why his mind fooled him, why his magnificent but also hateful brain told him he had to hate John. Why he had to take pills to get any sleep, why he had to keep them hidden between the the feathers of his pillow, why he had to be the first to go to bed. Why he hated the sound the bed made when John joined him. That creaking sound he once loved - he loved it because it was the sound the bed made when they used to love each other, when they used to make love all the night. It was the sound the bed made every time he jumped on top of John, eager to taste his skin and his lips, eager to meet his body and his love.

He knows he couldn't get to sleep without the pills, because the hatred he had felt for John was really the hatred he had felt for himself. Victor and the other lovers, all of them, his mean actions, the way he talked about John, saying he was dead, the way he looked down at John taking advantage of his own height, Sherlock looked at John like he was nothing, as if John was a homeless man Sherlock had let in just because he needed someone who could cook his food, wash his clothes and do the shopping and the cleaning. Many sins, many bad actions, many bad thoughts were heavy on Sherlock's chest, and as his mother once told him when he was a little boy, bad actions wouldn't let him sleep.

Every time he heard that sound, that creaking sound which he associated with John joining him in bed, Sherlock longed to be able to turn and hug him. Sherlock always wanted to hug John, feel the warmth of John's body, taste his lips again, feel those thin but sweet lips against his own and make John his again.

Now Sherlock looks at the empty space next to him, and he wishes he could go back in time and change everything. Sherlock wants to go back and delete, change, do something so he would have never stopped loving and caring for John. But he realises he never stopped doing so. Caring wasn't an _advantage_, it has never been one. So it doesn't matter how many times he thinks about it, Sherlock can't conceive of a specific moment when he thought so, when he thought caring and loving John Watson was a mistake, that it made him look small, stupid, pedestrian, boring. He knows now that the opposite is true. Caring and loving John Watson was actually the greatest thing he could have ever done; it wasn't a mistake, but the best and the only thing Sherlock did right in his life. It never made him look small, stupid, pedestrian or boring. It made Sherlock look big, brilliant, clever, it made Sherlock smile and laugh and be the person he had never allowed himself to be, not since he was a young man injecting himself whatever he could find in order to destroy himself.

Silent crying. Sherlock doesn't wipe his tears, he just lets them flow freely down his sharp and pale cheeks. He feels so cold, even when he has a heavy duvet over him. Sherlock realises he's alone. He realises that the silence, the emptiness John left, his empty chair, his empty side of the bed, even his empty favourite mug are hurting him and the pain in unbearable. Sherlock needs John, he needs him to be right next to him, he needs to feel his natural warmth next to him, he needs to wake up and touch John's side and feel it warm. Sherlock needs to hear the water running, he needs to see John walking out the bathroom with his hair damp. Sherlock needs to see John sitting on his usual chair, typing on his computer, sometimes reading, sometimes drinking tea. Sherlock misses John's angry shouting at some football match on telly. Sherlock needs to hear John's voice again, because he swears to the God he never believed in that if he doesn't do it soon, he will die trying.

John died trying, Sherlock knows John died trying to love him, trying to get into his heart and be the couple they once were. Sherlock knows John wanted to make him happy. Now he's dead. John surrendered to his pain and Sherlock realises that that was the worst way to die. The worst way to die for a soldier.

John was a soldier.

A soldier never surrenders, he fights and fights, he never gives up. And thinking John surrendered himself makes Sherlock's heart ache, twist in pain inside his chest. No matter how hard Sherlock tries, he would never be able to understand how much John suffered, how many tears John cried, how much John knew about the lovers, the pills. Sherlock thinks he will never understand, he will never feel – experience - the pain John went through when he realised he was about to die, that he was dying while unloved by the man he considered to be the love of his life.

The seconds, the minutes, the hours feel like an eternity. Sherlock's tears seem to be endless, it feels like his eyes have enough tears to last a lifetime.

Sherlock changes his own position and sits resting his back on the headboard. He spends endless minutes staring at John's side of the bed, which has remained untouched since he died. He still remembers that morning when he was woken up by the sound of John's alarm going off. It was taking John what felt like endless seconds to turn off that alarm clock. Sherlock remembers pressing his arm over John's shoulder to turn the clock off and then heading to the bathroom to have a shower first.

Popping into the shower and feeling the hot water running over his body, Sherlock could see and smell his own shampoo and soap, and he realised John had used them when he showered the previous night before going to bed. Sherlock remembers not giving a fuck about it and then going to the kitchen and feeling annoyed, irritated by John not having made the tea.

God, to think he felt irritated by that! Sherlock had been annoyed because John hadn't made his tea, something he took for granted, and now John's tea is one of the things he misses with all his heart.

And then the smell. That awful smell that he was – and still is - used to, that characteristic smell he could sometimes detect on Molly's lab coat or at a crime scene, that smell which belongs to corpses, to dead people.

Sherlock glanced at John's white coat, completely wrinkled and discarded, the bag of lollipops on the counter, John's bag on the sofa... and noticed the smell.

Somewhere inside his mind, a small and vague voice was telling him the obvious. Sherlock was a genius after all, he could have deduced it. He could have deduced what was going on. Sherlock could have known.

He walked to his room and stopped at the doorway. John was lying on his side and all Sherlock could see was John's back, his still back. The covers were at the feet of the bed, Sherlock had removed the covers and duvets himself when he woke up and left the room, so he could see John's full back. It only took him two seconds to see that John wasn't breathing, to see that John's ribcage wasn't either rising or going down. Sherlock walked until he was standing right next to John, and knelt until their faces were on the same level. He moved his head from one side to another while he examined John's pale face. John's hands were pale and cold, both glued together in a prayer position under his chin, his fingers almost under one of his cheeks. Sherlock reached out to touch those hands and then John's cheek and he felt them cold, very cold and still. That was the moment when he knew for certain that John wasn't breathing.

His long hands were on John's shoulders when Sherlock shook his lifeless body, knowing he was dead, but a tiny little seed of hope still remained inside him, inside Sherlock, waiting for John to wake up and prove that it was just his imagination. Sherlock wanted to believe that John was just deeply asleep, that he wasn't dead.

Sherlock screamed and begged for a miracle. The detective sighs at the memory of himself, on his knees next to John, begging him to come back, to stop playing this game, to stop teasing him.

_"John, this is not funny! Wake up, please love, wake up!"_

_"I've learnt __my__ lesson, please John, stop it, please love!"_

Sherlock admitted some of his sins and asked John for forgiveness.

_"I will stop seeing Victor, I promise! Please John, come back, please! I'm sorry, please, forgive me!"_

His big hands were on John's shoulders and Sherlock shook John's lifeless body over and over, and John's motionless head hit against the pillow over and over but his blue eyes remained shut. The consulting detective didn't care about the smell and the coldness of John's lifeless, extremely pale body when he started crying and when he buried his own face against the dead man's chest. Sherlock had kissed John and mumbled things just to himself. John's pale lips tasted bitter. Sherlock wanted to feel that sweet taste again, he had been craving John's lips for so long that when he kissed John, it horrified Sherlock to find them bitter and cold.

Sherlock wipes his tears and realises it's already a new day. He moves the curtains and sees the sun is shining, he can even hear some birds singing. He finally decides he has to start a new day.

He makes the bed just as John used to do and then he has a quick shower. He keeps using the same brand of shampoo and soap John liked so much. He inhales the scent left on his body and closes his eyes and for a moment, and Sherlock imagines John has touched him. For a moment, he imagines he smells like John because they have hugged tightly, because John has let his own hands travel up and down his body. If only.

Sherlock doesn't need to think twice when it comes to clothes; black shirt, black trousers and a black jacket always do. But when he looks himself at the mirror, Sherlock sees the first white hairs on his head, just laying there in plain sight. Those white hairs are mixed between the black ones, and his curls look different. There are also new wrinkles on his porcelain face, around his eyes, on his forehead. He has bags under his eyes. Sherlock realises he's getting old. He realises time hasn't stopped for him, time continued flowing and eventually, time has also left traces on him.

_"You have not changed in the past ten years, Sherlock. I admire that. Believe me. Not a single wrinkle in that porcelain face of yours nor a single white hair in that dark and curly head. You resemble youth and life. Have a long life, Sherlock."_

John's words in his last letter haunt him no end. Sherlock hasn't read it in the last few weeks, he has been keeping it away from his hands, but he remembers the words - those words coming from the deepest part of John's heart and soul are there, very close to him, surrounding him wherever he goes, reminding him he has destroyed a love, a heart, a person. That he has destroyed, killed John Watson.

Once the kettle boils, Sherlock is preparing John's favourite mug of tea when he hears someone opening the front door, the door which keeps him from the streets. Sherlock moves to his own door and hears the downstairs door being softly closed, keys being held in a pair of old and rheumatic hands, lady's hands. The woman is taking her own time to walk the seventeen steps to reach the door of 221 B and Sherlock takes his own time as well, to work out who this lady is and why she has the keys of the flat.

Mrs Hudson throws her arms around Sherlock soon as she sees him.

Sherlock closes his eyes and locks his long arms around her thin, fragile frame, inhaling inhales her scent, that mix of flowers and her own perfume. He can feel her doing the same, inhaling his scent and crying as soon as she rests her face against his chest. Several seconds, perhaps minutes, have passed when she breaks the hug and gives him a soft, warm kiss on his cheek.

"_My_ boy, how I've missed you," says Mrs Hudson, while she looks at him, noticing his bloodshot eyes.

The detective lets her take a look at him as he does the same. Mrs Hudson has changed a lot, she's nothing like he used to remember her. That blond dyed hair is now all white, and those wrinkles she used to fight using creams and make up are now deep, almost cutting her skin. She's also very pale and that pink and healthy shade has disappeared from her small cheeks. She's shorter too, and her hands tremble a bit, although not enough to get over-worried.

Sherlock clears his throat. "I've missed you as well, Mrs Hudson,"

He didn't know it was true until he said it.

Mrs Hudson steps in and takes a look at the flat, and Sherlock inwardly thanks his brother for his persistence in sending maids to clean at least one or twice a week. Seeing Mrs Hudson can hardly walk by herself, Sherlock hurries and fetches a chair, moving it close to her, so she doesn't have to walk more than necessary.

"Look at you. You look just like I remember, Sherlock, dear," says the old lady as she takes a seat in front of him "but as you can see, time passes for some of us,"

Ten years ago, Mrs Hudson left London and moved to the countyside after she was told by a doctor that she wasn't able to walk stairs and cope with the pollution and the rainy weather of the city, that those things were bad for her hip and unless she wanted surgery and a prosthetic hip, she would have to move away somewhere healthier. It broke her heart to know she would have to move and leave Sherlock and John behind. Sherlock remembers that day when they saw her getting into one of her nieces' car and waving her hand to them, and the tears falling from her eyes, he can't remember much, but he is sure John cried as well. She was like a mother to them. The detective can't remember much about the rent and those things he considered to be boring and dull, but he suspects John kept sending her the money. They had visited her several times over the years but he can hardly remember the last time he did so, the last time_ they_ did so.

Sherlock closes his eyes when he realises he had also forgotten all about it and about the woman who he once helped to get rid of her abusive husband. Then she helped him giving him a nice place to live. Mrs Hudson was like his mother, like _their_ mother. Sherlock remembers her always complaining about the things she did for them, when no one asked her to do so, and saying she was their landlady and not their housekeeper.

And he left her behind.

Nevertheless, Mrs Hudson was not only the old woman who would sometimes clean, wash their clothes or cook for them, when he and John were still a happy couple. Mrs Hudson was the woman in whom they could trust, the only one who they would let into their life and the only one who they would go to when they needed advice.

Mrs Hudson was like their mother. Like the mother both John and he needed because theirs were dead.

Sherlock places two mugs and some cookies he found in the cupboards in front of Mrs Hudson and smiles weakly "Look closely, Mrs Hudson. I have white hair as well. And I see you stopped dying your hair."

"Doctor's orders. I don't like it but well, that's what happens when you are old, I suppose. But this place hasn't changed at all! Look at that awful smiley face on the wall!"

Sherlock smiles at the comment and remembers Mrs Hudson's yelling when she found out what he had done to her precious walls.

But Sherlock can't tell, he can't really know if Mrs Hudson knows. If she can possibly know that John's dead, if she knows the way John died or the conditions in which he died. He can't tell if John had still had any kind of contact with her, but Sherlock is sure he did. John wasn't the type of person who would forget her. John cared.

"Your niece doesn't know you're here. And judging by your right thumb I can see you haven't stopped buying those scratch cards, have you?" asks Sherlock, out of the blue and it takes a few seconds to Mrs Hudson to process his quick words.

She smiles back. "I told her I was going to the shop. It hardly takes me more than a few minutes, she must have realised by now that I didn't get the milk,"

"I apologise for the tea, Mrs Hudson. As you can see, my cooking skills haven't improved at all," says Sherlock, very politely, just as he always talked to her, but he's over-acting it.

Mrs Hudson drinks her tea and frowns. Sherlock is right, his tea is not the best and she smiles, remembering her favourite tenant's lack of cooking skills.

"I came prepared. Maybe you can help me by bringing up the shopping bag I left downstairs. I couldn't carry it, dear,"

Sherlock hurries downstairs and glances at the two bags left close to the stairs. One of them has a box of tea leaves and home made jam, with a quick look Sherlock can see those are from the country side, the jam was made by one of Mrs Hudson's nieces who seems to own a small business, selling it. But there's also a bag with a blue shoe box inside.

"One of my nieces makes this jam, I brought you some, I know you'll like it," says Mrs Hudson as she opens the jar and places it on the table.

The detective smiles. It's strawberry, John's favourite flavour. Sherlock isn't a person who would eat jam, John was the jam lover.

Mrs Hudson makes her own way into the kitchen and with slow movements, she prepares tea with the tea leaves she has brought. Sherlock occasionally helps her, reaching things, handling the kettle and the cups, but they remain silent during the whole process.

"Remember, dear, when I used to cook for you _both_? You two could be so lazy sometimes!"

Sherlock smiles "I know."

There's a moment of silence in which Sherlock realises that she _does_ know. They are sitting in front of each other and Mrs Hudson hands him a piece of toast with jam and then she takes the blue shoe box and places it on her lap.

"Sherlock, I came here to give you these, I think they belong to you. They _should_ belong to you," she says as she hands Sherlock the blue shoe box.

The detective places his mug on the table and takes the blue box in his hands. His deductive skills have already told him what the box contains. The box is full of letters, all of them written by John, addressed to Mrs Hudson.

"He wrote me all these letters over the years. I told him he could send me emails, my niece's daughters have a computer at home, but he told me he preferred to write. So every now and then he would write to me and tell me how things were, how you two were doing and about the children. I was so proud when I received a letter with this picture."

Mrs Hudson shows Sherlock a picture of John smiling, holding a diploma which has his name printed on it, a certificate proving John was a Pediatrician. Surrounding him are Molly, Mike Stamford, Sarah Sawyer and other people Sherlock can't recognize. They are all smiling, John is smiling, he looks so happy and proud. Sherlock can't even remember where he was or why he wasn't there, next to his husband on one of the best days of his life. Sherlock can't even think what excuse he gave John to avoid that day, if he even gave an excuse.

Sherlock doesn't know if he should tell Mrs Hudson why he wasn't there, why he wasn't next to John that day, smiling and telling him how proud he was, why he wasn't in that picture. Sherlock doesn't know if she knows, or if John told her something, if John told her he was away on a case instead of telling her he didn't care, or that maybe he was on the other side of the city looking for excitement in all the wrong places.

The detective doesn't want to lose Mrs Hudson's love. She's the only person he can consider as a mother. She's the only one who truly loved him when no one else did, when he was alone, getting out of rehab and when an old landlord kicked him out. Mrs Hudson was the only one who believed in his detective business, in his skills and in himself. She believed in him.

"There are lots of pictures, dear,"

Opening other envelopes, Sherlock finds three more pictures; one of them shows John sneaking into the picture, holding a cake which says 'Happy Birthday Sherlock' on the top. Sherlock can see by the handwriting on the cream, the layers and the chocolate that John made that cake. He looks at the date of the picture, which is printed on the back. It was taken almost two years ago, the sixth of January 2012, a few months before John's death.

Sherlock wasn't even in London that day. He never knew John had made him a cake, he always thought he'd forgotten about it in the later years of their marriage, when Sherlock stopped talking to him. But there he was, on the day of his birthday, holding a cake he had made for him, smiling happily. John was a good actor; he looked genuinely happy, even when he must have been utterly miserable. Even when Sherlock thinks John already knew he was living the last months of his life, he didn't stop believing.

On the next photograph John is hugging Hamish. The little boy looks ill, very ill, but he's smiling, his little head glued to John's, his little arms tightly pressed hugging his doctor, hugging John. Judging by the surroundings, they are at the clinic, and it looks like Hamish was still healthy at that time, or at least his cancer hadn't advanced yet. Sherlock looks at the back, and reads John's handwriting.

_"This is my little one, Hamish."_

Sherlock smiles, but when he looks at the next one, a few tears fall from his eyes.

It's a picture of himself, peacefully sleeping on the sofa. He is in his pajamas, with an orange blanket over him, the very same blanket John once took from the Yard. Sherlock can't recognise himself. His eyes are shut, he's definitely sleeping and his curls are off his face and he can deduce John had touched him, John had run a hand over them to brush his curls out of his eyes and take the photo. His long hands are glued together under one of his cheeks, under the one which is pressed against the sofa. His expression is the one of someone who is having a good time sleeping, of someone who has very sweet dreams. Sherlock sees he looks like an angel, like the good person he will never be.

Sherlock turns it and reads a very brief inscription, John's handwriting.

_"Some things never change, Mrs Hudson! But at least he's sleeping. Sherlock sends his love."_

There are more pictures, but Sherlock focuses on one of the last letters. He can feel Mrs Hudson's eyes on him, but he doesn't care. Sherlock reads a few paragraphs that have caught his eye, because they contain his name and some lies he can't even believe.

_"Sherlock is doing well. He continues working for __New __Scotland Yard at insane hours, and sometimes he has to go away and help other police departments, which makes his eyes shine with excitement. You should see him, running from one place to another, playing the violin, and doing experiments. He's very happy. I'm not so happy for the state of our kitchen, but you don't need to worry, I do my best to keep the table, the floor and everything away from acid and his experiments. _

_The boys from Speedy's send their love. They say they miss you popping in for tea and biscuits. We sometimes go, when I can't really be bothered with doing breakfast and when Sherlock is really hungry. _

_About adopting Hamish, we have the papers, but it will take a very long time. Sherlock is very happy with the idea, so am I. I wish you could be here __to__ meet Hamish. He's a very sweet boy, just like the child I always dreamed of. I need to convince Sherlock to help me with the room upstairs. We'll see._

_I will visit you soon. I'm afraid Sherlock won't be able to __come__, he's terribly busy at the moment. We really hope you're fine and please, send our love to your nieces and grandchildren. Sherlock also says he misses your tea and your cakes!_

_Take care of yourself__,__ Mrs Hudson,_

_Lots of Love,_

_John Watson XXX"_

Sherlock sobs. Mrs Hudson gets up and sits next to him and lets him hug her and cry in her arms. Sherlock sobs like a small child and his ex landlady cries with him, but silently. The old lady rubs his back, reassuring him that everything is going to be OK. The only thing that breaks that silence between them is the noise from cars and people outside. Everything seems to continue working, the world seems to have never stopped for Sherlock. The world continues, people are born, people die. And he's still there, wishing and thinking and rethinking how he can possibly meet John again. How he can possibly change everything he did.

Mrs Hudson knows.

"He lied for me..." says Sherlock between sobs.

Mrs Hudson doesn't say anything about that.

"John continued visiting me. He always came early to have breakfast with me and my nieces. Then he would take a look at my medicines and he would tell me if what I was taking was good or not for me. John liked to walk around the place, he said he loved the country, and that maybe one day you would move there so you could keep the bees you like and then he would have time to rest. John talked a lot about you. He kept telling me about your cases, the details and sometimes he would bring me some papers with pictures of you. He was very proud of you, Sherlock. His eyes had that special gleam every time he mentioned your name," explains the old lady, with all her kind intention to make Sherlock feel safe, to make him feel relieved for a moment, to calm him down.

However, Sherlock continues crying silently, even though his sobs have stopped now. The detective has his head in Mrs Hudson's lap and the old lady is caressing his curls and wiping away his tears. Sherlock can feel the warmth of her hands, her soft voice trying to calm him down, trying to give him some hope.

"Was John proud of me?"

Mrs Hudson nods and smiles, genuinely, closing her eyes and remembering John "Yes, dear. He was very proud of you. He always has been. Don't ever think the opposite."

_"Look at this, Mrs Hudson! He was on the front page of The Daily Telegraph and in some others abroad!"_

_John handed Mrs Hudson a copy of the newspaper and he read her some headlines and one article. The old lady listened __to__ him carefully, paying attention __to__ every detail, every comma and every full stop. John even read her the lines below the pictures._

_"Sherlock managed to solve this case in a few hours. Every one is talking about it. I'm so proud of him," said John with a big smile. _

_Mrs Hudson nodded and smiled at him sincerely "You should be. Sherlock is very clever. And it's good he uses that brilliant mind to help people."_

_"Indeed."_

"Did he tell you about Hamish?"

"You should have seen him when he talked about that little angel. John said he wanted to adopt him and start a family with you, but he always complained about the paperwork. He said you were happy. I told him to ask your brother for help, but he said you didn't want him to -**.**"

Sherlock cries and Mrs Hudson tries to hush him, she tries to make him stop, but Sherlock stands up and walks a few steps away from his ex landlady until he's facing the window.

"It's OK Sherlock, calm down dear -."

"I killed him."

"What? What are you talking about, Sherlock?" asks Mrs Hudson, concerned and surprised.

Sherlock remains in his position facing the window, because he's too embarrassed to look at Mrs Hudson in the eye. "John lied. I was never too busy to visit you. I knew when John visited you, I was able to tell when he did so, but I never said anything, I never asked. Those cases John talked about, he wasn't there with me because I stopped talking to him. I ignored him, I hurt him in every possible way until he died."

Mrs Hudson, who has stopped crying a few minutes ago, starts again.

But Sherlock continues.

"All those letters saying I was fine, saying I was working away or that I was happy, we were happy - those were lies. I wasn't fine - we _weren't_ fine. The pictures, Mrs Hudson, the pictures are fake! I wasn't here the day of my birthday, I was in an hotel room at Scotland with someone I can't even remember now! And John was here, he made me a cake and he _waited_ for me! I stopped caring and loving John. I thought I hated him, and I told him, I told him I wished he was dead. And - and I was seeing another man and he knew! He always knew and he didn't say anything, I cheated on John, Mrs Hudson!"

"Dear -."

"I never wanted kids, John told you we couldn't have them, but the truth is I _was _able to. I could have given my sperm but I told John I wasn't going to do it - I was selfish! And I never wanted Hamish, I never knew about his existence and about John working with children until he died! And because of me, John died - I killed him!" Sherlock is shouting now, and before he collapses, Mrs Hudson hugs him tightly.

She cries as she hugs Sherlock and presses her head against his convulsing chest. She can feel how sad and lost the detective is. The ex landlady can sense the complete hopelessness of the man she used to take care as if he was her real son. Now she understands what John meant in the letter he left to her.

Some things are meant to happen, even if it means they have to break people's hearts.

"I almost hit him. I wanted to break every bone in his body, I wanted to leave bruises," says Sherlock between more sobs and he lets his landlady wipe his tears, but they continue flowing out of his eyes "I wanted to fucking mark his body and tell him he would always be mine. I can't remember our moments together. I can only remember that day and when I want to delete it - I can't!"

Mrs Hudson makes Sherlock sit again and takes both of his hands. John asked her to make him remember what he had forgotten. The old lady wonders how John knew everything, how he was able to predict _this_. John had explained to her that he wanted Sherlock to live and move on without him. John's words were painful, but he was right. Sherlock needed to remember their good moments, but he needed to forget him as well.

The old lady is determined to comply with John's wishes.

"Why don't you let me help you? I remember the day you told me you were together. Poor John, he wanted to be the one to tell me about it, but he kept mumbling and you just told me, and I'll quote you because I remember that day as if it was yesterday: 'Mrs Hudson, John and I are now as people like to say, an item. Our relationship has got intimate and if I were you, I'll knock the door before coming in'.", the old lady laughs and Sherlock manages to curl his lips. "Poor John, I don't even know why he was so nervous! He looked as if he was afraid of me."

Something inside Sherlock's mind start to work, and a few images come to his mind. He can see Mrs Hudson on the sofa and John and himself sitting on their respective chairs in front of her. Sherlock can scarcely remember John's words, but at least he can now map him, remember him blushing and mumbling.

"Tell me more, Mrs Hudson," he begs and the old lady smiles.

"I had to hit my roof with a broomstick a few times, you weren't exactly quiet if you follow me. And I walked in on you two once!"

Sherlock smiles and wipes his tears away. He can remember.

_They were __in__ the sitting room, and he had John pressed against his armchair. Sherlock was on top, both were naked and moaning each other's n__ames__ when they __became aware of__ their landlady's eyes, which were as wide as saucers, and her __small__ hand covering her mouth. _

_The last thing they heard was her hurried steps on the stairs and John almost __dropped __him __on__ the floor, trying to put on some clothes to __run__ behind her, and apologise. _

_"Come back here, John. __She's already__ seen a naked man before, she was married once. This is not -__.__"_

_John __pulled__ a shirt over his head and shook his head, angrily "But she has seen us naked and doing it, Sherlock! It's not the same! Get dressed and come with me, we have to apologise__.__"_

_"What for? She should have knocked!"_

_"You left the door open!"_

_"Then you could have closed it__.__"_

_"I had you all over me!" said John, half defeated._

_"Oh, so I was the one keeping you as a hostage? If I'm not wrong, which never happens, you were the one with your hands glued to my -__.__"_

_"Sherlock!"_

_"- arse," __finished __Sherlock with a smile and he kissed John passionately, successfully convincing him to stay and finish what they had started._

Mrs Hudson looks at Sherlock's eyes, and they have a gleam, a special gleam which suggests to her that she's accomplishing what John wanted, and Sherlock is remembering.

"When you two got married, I remember asking you to smile for the camera. You two looked so handsome in your suits, both looked so happy, so complete," says Mrs Hudson with a longing expression "And you had that... that face of yours! So serious. But I could tell you were very, very happy."

_"Sherlock, smile for a moment, please." _

_The detective rolled his eyes at his landlady and faked a smile. John shook his head, playfully, but he smiled sincerely._

_"Stop being so Sherlocky and smile, you git," murmured John._

_"But I don't see why I should smile for photographs,"_

_John pouted__**.**__ "Aren't you happy?"_

_"Of course I am. I can genuinely say I'm very happy and pleased to finally __get __married to you__**.**__"_

_"Then, smile."_

_"I might need more __persuasion __than that to accomplish your orders, Captain Watson," said Sherlock, and smiled again for Mrs Hudson's camera. _

_John smiled. "Do I need to bribe my own husband with sex?"_

_Sherlock raised an eyebrow in a very I'm-not-being-clear-enough way and John smirked. _

_"Then we'll have to ask Mrs Hudson to spend the night at Mrs Turner's__.__"_

_Sherlock smiled widely __for__ the camera._

"Mrs Hudson... who proposed to whom?" asks Sherlock, embarrassed with himself for having to ask that question.

But the truth is that he can't remember.

The old lady smiles, sadly "John. John was the one who proposed to you."

Mrs Hudson tells Sherlock several anecdotes. Most of them are happy and funny moments, like the time Sherlock wanted to cook in order to prove he was clever enough to do so by just deducing instead of reading and following a recipe, but he almost ended up burning down the kitchen. She also tells Sherlock about the time they decided to go on holiday to Spain, but she can't tell him more than the few things John told her. Sherlock tells her he can remember and she continues telling him the stories he once deleted.

"John and I... did we have arguments?"

Mrs Hudson's nods "You once fought because you conducted an experiment on one of John's favourite's jumpers. I could hear you both from downstairs and then John came and asked me if he could stay with me for a few days."

The detective looks at her and remembers.

_"I'm done, Sherlock. If you needed __wool__ for an experiment, you could have gone to the shop round the corner and __bought__ some, or __asked __Mrs Hudson -__.__"_

_Sherlock shrugged__.__ "Does she have __wool__?"_

_"She goes to a knitting club on __Friday nights__!"_

_John took a bag with him and started filling it with some clothes he found. _

_"What are you doing?"_

_"Leaving. I won't come back unless you apologise," replied John, not looking at Sherlock at all. _

_"You're going to ask Mrs Hudson to stay with her aren't you?"_

_John sighed "Yes. So you know where you can find me if you feel like apologising."_

_It took Sherlock only a few minutes to go down, apologise and ask John to go back home because he was hungry and he was craving for John's special rice. John kissed him and laughed, saying he couldn't believe how stupid their arguments were. Sherlock agreed._

"You never fought over serious things. It was always domestic," confesses Mrs Hudson as she sips her tea.

Sherlock closes his eyes and sighs. He can remember a lot of more things now. He can picture John's smile, he can even hear John's laughter. Sherlock can remember his voice.

A part of Sherlock is relieved, and inside him he feels the hope he has missed, lost somewhere.

"Mrs Hudson, please tell me what John told you when - when he wanted to have children. When he was looking for surrogate mothers and cleaning the room upstairs," begs Sherlock and Mrs Hudson nods, taking a deep breath before talking.

It hurts her to remember John's tears and sadness when he started storing back all those boxes with old things after he had cleaned his old room upstairs to turn it into a nursery, a room for a baby, for a child to grow up. She doesn't know if she has to tell this to Sherlock, she doesn't know if it will destroy him or not, but he's almost begging, and she can't say no. She was never able to say no to him.

"You were out, working on a case when I came here and saw him storing all those boxes back inside his old room. I asked him what happened and he told me you two were infertile. He was so broken, so sad. He already told me about his problem before, and it surprised and shocked me to no end when he told me you couldn't have babies as well**.**" Mrs Hudson fights her tears back and takes Sherlock's hand again. "I told him you could adopt, I told him to ask your brother for help, but he said that maybe it just wasn't your destiny to become parents."

The tears Sherlock fought before, are now falling again down his cheeks. He realises now how mean and how selfish he was, destroying John's dreams, one of his most wanted dreams. Sherlock remembers John's eyes full of hope and desire to become a parent, how he talked about the room upstairs, about the cradle he wanted, the possible names, about preparing bottles, changing nappies, and how lovely it could be having a baby together.

"I don't know why I let him dream, why I let him continue with the plans, why I didn't tell him until so late that I didn't want children and that I wasn't going to give my sperm. I don't know why he didn't leave me. He should have left me and found someone who could give him children," admits Sherlock.

"He would have never left you, dear. John loved you. Maybe life didn't give him the child he wanted, but let's try to imagine he has it now. Wherever John is now, he's with that little boy he loved so much. I'm sure they are together and they are a family,"

Sherlock nods. "You have been there, at John's grave."

"Yes, deary. I went there before coming here."

After a few minutes of silence, Mrs Hudson stands up and announces she has to leave. She says her nieces must be worried and she has to take some medicine. Sherlock insists on taking her to the train station and she accepts. Before Mrs Hudson leaves Baker Street, she walks around Sherlock's flat, around her own and old rooms, and she stares at every empty space and lets a hand run over the walls, inwardly saying good bye to that place which had been her house, the place where she suffered an abusive husband, but also the place where she lived the happiest moments of her life with those two, John Watson and Sherlock Holmes who were like sons to her. Like the sons she never had.

"Some papers will arrive soon. I want you to own this place."

"Mrs Hudson -."

"I won't accept a no, Sherlock. My nieces are married to wealthy men, they won't need this place and I'm sure it will be in good hands," explains Mrs Hudson as Sherlock closes the door of 221 Baker Street and hails a cab.

The old lady takes a last look at the building and gets into the cab.

The car ride isn't long, but they remain silent. She can see Sherlock feels some relief, and that makes her happy.

At the train station, the train is already waiting for the passengers to get in. Sherlock walks next to Mrs Hudson until they are standing close to the train, and the detective realises he has to say good bye.

"I don't want to forget this. Your brother gave it to me. John left it in his office, and it was addressed to me. He explained in his letter that I could give you this only under certain circumstances. And I'm sure I'm doing it right, just as John would have wanted me too. Open it when you're at home," says Mrs Hudson as she takes a little parcel out of her violet handbag.

Sherlock's eyes are wide, he can't even believe it until he reads John's handwriting.

_"Sherlock Holmes."_

"Your brother came one day. I was doing the gardening when I saw a black car parked outside. It took me a long time to realise who he was," says Mrs Hudson as she smiles weakly. "He told me John had passed away. I couldn't really believe it, even though I knew your brother would never say such a lie."

Sherlock frowns. "What did Mycroft tell you?"

"He told me John had a heart attack. He also handed me a letter and this parcel for you."

"I don't understand..." says Sherlock as he examines the parcel.

"I got my own letter. And John left me this parcel for you. He wrote to me, asking me to give you this when I felt it was the right moment."

Sherlock seem to understand, but he doesn't want to when he sees Mrs Hudson weep a few little tears.

"What do you mean, Mrs Hudson?"

"We know when we're going to die, dear. John knew it. I know it now," replies the old lady, tiredly.

"Mrs Hudson..."

"I'm dying, Sherlock. It could happen tonight, tomorrow, next week. But I know it will happen soon. And I know you want to die. You want to see John again, don't you?"

Sherlock starts crying, even when he doesn't want to. "With all my heart,"

"You have to understand that you can't choose this. It will inevitably happen when it has to, and I'm sure it won't happen any time soon. Some things happen only to makes us stronger -."

However, Sherlock cuts her off "How can John's death make me stronger? Why did God do this to me? I can't live without him, Mrs Hudson," admits Sherlock.

Mrs Hudson's takes his cold hands and caress them "I remember being beaten by my own husband. I loved him so much I forgave him every time he broke any of my bones. I forgave him for years because I loved him. Every time I asked myself why he kept doing it, why he kept hitting me and why he kept saying he loved me, I also asked myself why God was doing this to me. When he got sentenced in Florida, I could have saved him, but I knew he would hit me again and I would die as soon as he got out of jail. But you came along, and you helped me. You helped me to accept my destiny and you ensured his death, which at the same time saved me. His absence hurt me for years and it still does, but it made me stronger because I got to live and see my family grow, my nieces have their own families. I got to live with you and John, who were like sons to me. You were the sons I always wanted and I laugh every time I remember how much I spoiled you**.**"

Sherlock only nods and smiles weakly at her. People around them look at the crying man and the old lady, but they don't care.

"Sherlock, you're like a son to me. And I know I can't make this pain go away, I wish I could, I wish I could do something but I can't. Promise me you'll have a long life. Promise me you'll live, you'll keep on working and give yourself another chance. I need you to promise me that, I need to die knowing I did what John asked me to. I need to die knowing no son of mine is unhappy. I need to leave this world knowing you, Sherlock, my dear, are in peace,"

"I promise. I promise Mrs Hudson**,** I will have a long life. If that's what John asked you, I will do it."

The train is going to leave soon.

"This is probably the last time we're seeing each other, Sherlock. So please, take care of yourself."

"Mrs Hudson -."

"I love you so much, Sherlock my dear. You can't imagine how grateful I am to life, to God, for meeting you, for being whatever you think I am to you**.**"

"You were like a mother to me, to _us_. I'm sorry I forgot you, Mrs Hudson. I will never forgive myself for it. I'm sorry for my rudeness and for all the troubles I caused you and I promise I will live a long life and I promise I will take care of Baker Street. Please, forgive me."

"You don't have anything to apologise for, my dear. You never caused me any trouble, just the opposite, you were like a big child that I was glad to raise and spoil a bit. I wish I had taught you how to cook properly, but I'm sure you'll manage," says Mrs Hudson and she laughs a little. "Remember to eat at least four times per day, and sleep, dear. Don't forget the gas bill either, and visit a doctor every time you feel bad. Can you promise me that, Sherlock?"

"I promise, Mrs Hudson."

"And make peace with your brother. You can't imagine how much that man loves you, dear. Don't fight with him, I know you don't like people telling you what to do, or saying what's the best for you, but he really does it for your own good. You're everything he has, and you're family. You know my words -."

"Family is all we have at the end," says the detective, completing his ex landlady's words.

"I know you love him too. Don't let it happen _again_."

"I won't. Mrs Hudson... Can I ask you something?" asks Sherlock, a bit insecure.

"Sure deary. Anything you want,"

Sherlock seems to hesitate for a moment, but he finally asks**.** "I want to ask you a favour. Please, tell John I love him. Tell him I will keep my promise and that I will wait for him to come for me**.**"

"I will," promises Mrs Hudson.

"And please, look after me, tell me you will."

The old lady pats his shoulder. "You won't need me. I'm sure John is already doing it."

"You think John is looking after me, you think he protects me?"

She nods. "Of course he is. Don't ever think otherwise."

As soon as it is announced that the train will leave shortly, Mrs Hudson hugs Sherlock and he does the same. She rests her head on the tall man's chest and closes her eyes, letting her tears fall.

"Good bye, my dear Sherlock Holmes. It was an absolutely pleasure to know you. And I wish you the best, I'm sure you'll have a very happy and wonderful life ahead. I love you with all my heart, don't ever forget that."

Sherlock kisses her cheek. "Good bye, Martha Hudson. The pleasure was all mine. I'll fight every day to have a long and happy life. I love you as well, thank you."

The train leaves, and Sherlock knows he will never forget the ex landlady waving her hand, and crying. He knows he will never forget this day, the tears in his eyes, Mrs Hudson's words and all the things he managed to remember with her help. Thanks to her, Sherlock can now remember those happy moments he had with John, now he has some pictures, some of his letters. Now Sherlock knows more about the real John, about _his_ John, the same one he had deleted.

The detective hurries to get into a cab, heading back to Baker Street. Sherlock can't wait to get into his flat and open the parcel, he can't wait to open it and see what John had left for him, if he wrote something for him.

It feels like forever until he arrives at Baker Street. Sherlock removes his long coat and his scarf and sits in his usual armchair, moving the blue shoe box Mrs Hudson had left and places it on John's armchair. Sherlock's hands shake while he opens the parcel. He carefully ripes the brown paper, slowly and carefully so he doesn't tear the paper with his name written on it, the name _his_ John wrote.

Inside, he finds pictures, lots of old pictures of them, together, happily smiling. The one at the top has them together, with their faces glued together, they are cheek to cheek. Sherlock can see they are both holding the camera and both are smiling, very happily. They look happy and complete, just like they should have always been. Behind it says _"Our first picture together"_ written with John's neat handwriting.

And Sherlock doesn't know what to do when he finds an envelope addressed to him. He carefully opens it and inhales the scent. He can feel John next to him. God, Sherlock wishes John could be next to him right now.

_"My Dearest Sherlock Holmes..."_

Sherlock can't believe what John's written to him.


	11. Saying Good-Bye

**Author's Note: Thanks for reading and please, review!  
**

* * *

**CHAPTER XI:**

**SAYING GOOD BYE**

He adjusts his whitish bee-keeping suit and puts on the hat and the veil. It's quite sunny, warm. The suit feels heavy on his body and the dark veil protects his skin. After years living in the country, he can't still get used to the sun and his tanned skin. He's about to leave the porch of his country house when he checks he has the letter inside his breast pocket.

Yes, he has it.

He has to walk several meters to finally reach his hives, all of them of his own creation. There are several, most of them are separated because he wants to create different kingdoms. Each seems to have their own Queen.

He carefully takes out some frames out of their respective hives and looks at them, cautiously, making himself sure he's not disturbing the bees' work. Despite some amateur bee-keepers adopting a new method, which consists of various top-bar hives and no frames, he's old school, as John sometimes says.

John also advised him that top-bar hives offer some advantages in interacting with the bees and the amount of weight that must be lifted is greatly reduced. Sherlock told him he might be old, but he can still lift heavy weights. The old detective doesn't really care if those methods are trendy in Africa, Asia or America.

The old man collects the honey and closes the hives. He stills believes he has to develop a new method and train his bees. Even though his honey is one of the most required and sold in the area, Sherlock knows he can do better. He can always do better.

As soon as he collects some of the recently made honey, he puts it in some jars for experimentation later on. Despite having been doing this for a couple of years now, he doesn't trust his own bees. He has to make sure the product of their work is good, the honey can be eaten and, most importantly, if it can be improved.

Sherlock places all the jars inside a wooden box and carries it in his arms, staggering as he walks a few steps and realizing he's carrying way too much weight. He stops for a moment when he sees two children walking towards him. The girl is pushing a green garden trolley and the little boy is walking next to her. She has a little frown between her eyebrows and his chin is high. Sherlock smiles.

"Grandpa! You know you can't lift heavy weights!" says the little blond girl, clearly scolding him.

Sherlock puts the wooden box on the trolley and starts pushing it himself, taking the little boy's hand with his and allowing the girl to walk next to him too. They walk in silence until they reach the garden.

"Want honey!"

He takes off the hat and the veil which were protecting his face from the bees and caresses the boy's blond curls. Florence pouts, and Sherlock notices.

"Why don't you go inside and pack your toys? Your father is coming soon."

Florence crosses her arms. "Can we stay one more day, please, please, pretty please?"

"Pwease," repeats little Hamish, struggling with the word as he watches his older sister's quick speech.

"It is _please_, Hamish. And you can stay as long as you want, but you have to ask your father."

The two children pout and frown together. The ten year old girl looks hurt, as does her three year-old brother. Sometimes Sherlock can't believe how they behave, how they talk and how clever they are. Not because the Holmes should be the only intelligent family he knows - but those kids, even though they are not his real grandchildren, are, look and act like if they have the Holmes' genes.

"But dad says we are far too noisy to stay here. But we are good, aren't we, grandpa Sherlock?"

"Yes, Florence, you are good kids," admits Sherlock as he removes his bee-keeping suit and straightens his worn shirt.

"And your food is better than mum's!"

Sherlock chuckles. "I've never mastered any cooking abilities, you should thank Anne for the meals. Besides, your mother's food is horrible because she insist on you consuming that horrible trendy food that people eat these days."

The old detective steps into his little kitchen and finds a young woman already heating some food and putting forks and fresh bread on the table.

"I'm almost done, Mr Holmes! Flo, Hamish, go and wash your hands!"

The kids smile when they see they are about to have lunch and run to the nearest bathroom to wash their hands. The faster they do it, the faster they will be sitting down and eating Anne's food.

"Thanks, Anne," says Sherlock as he places some jars of honey on the counter.

Anne is a seventeen year old girl and one of Sherlock's neighbours. Since the detective moved to the countryside, a kind woman who also lived in the small village helped him with the cleaning and cooking and would also wash Sherlock's clothes until she unfortunately died two years ago. Since then, her daughter Anne has been the one helping Sherlock with the house and sometimes with the children when they spend a few weeks with their grandfather.

"You should go back home and study if you really want to get into university."

"How do you -."

"I saw you reading while vacuuming the floor, you have bloodshot eyes, you hardly slept last night and I know the dates for the exams are coming soon."

"I'm sorry about that, Mr Holmes."

"It's OK. Go home, I can manage the kids, so take the day off tomorrow."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes. The house is already clean and I can make do with some soup," Sherlock reassures the teenager, and she smiles.

As soon as the food is ready, she places the plates on the table and says good bye to the kids, making them promise her they will behave. Anne picks up her bag with her books and promises to come back in two days while Sherlock walks her out of the house and helps her with her bike.

"Take care of yourself and study. I'm sure you'll get into university."

"I hope so, Mr Holmes. Bye, take care of yourself as well and thanks!"

The teenager waves her hand and Sherlock goes back to the house when he hears the kids calling his name, telling him they've already washed their hands.

The two children sit at the table and watch as their grandpa opens all the windows and doors of the house. There is a fresh wave of air and Sherlock closes his eyes when he feels it on his neck. The hot days are coming to an end, the summer is coming to an end, and he's sure he will see some leaves falling off the trees soon.

Maybe.

Only if he makes it that long. He will see the autumn blossom and then the winter come.

Maybe.

"Grandpa Sherlock, what are you thinking now?" asks Florence.

Sherlock smiles at her and lets a hand run over her long, blonde, straight hair. He can remember when she was born, the day she walked her first steps and when she pronounced her first word. Florence is very, very clever. And Sherlock doesn't just say it and he doesn't just believe it because she's John's daughter and Mary's granddaughter. Florence is really clever. Sometimes Sherlock wonders if there's any Holmes genes in her, even though they are not related at all.

Florence is very curious. She likes to explore, to touch, and to explore the world through her senses. She likes to sit with Sherlock and listen to every word he has to say. She enjoys reading every book he tells her to, and she likes knowing what he's thinking. Florence is deeply interested in her grandpa's stories, those amazing and thrilling stories about his days as a consulting detective, when he used to run and catch bad guys and protect people.

Sherlock has told them lots of stories. He always tells them the easiest ones, those dull and boring cases which never involved death or blood. Those are the ones he's allowed to tell them and those are the ones Sherlock prefers to remember.

"I'm deducing how many books your grandmother is going to sell once her latest book is out," explains Sherlock as he helps little Hamish to eat his veggies.

"She won't let me read her books. She says I need to be at least sixteen to read them. But I already know those stories, grandpa. It's not fair."

A few months after they had met, Mary started working with Sherlock. It happened this way: one afternoon, he was supposed to pick her up to go and have a coffee in the usual cafeteria, but instead he took her to her first crime scene. Sherlock needed a medical opinion and after doubting for a few minutes, Mary decided to help him. Soon she learned that the criminal classes don't take a day off, and that they mostly like to attack and leave crime scenes during the deadliest hours of the night, only to make police officers, Detective Inspectors and, obviously, forensic teams go mad. But most of the nights and days she would be woken up or sometimes interrupted from her study times because Sherlock was calling her, asking for her help and Mary felt adrenaline rush through her veins. It was something she loved, more than she cared to admit.

Sometimes, Sherlock would only require her to take a look at crime scenes at which the cause of death was a complete mystery to him. He never hesitated in asking her questions about swollen faces, deep cuts, bullet holes, etc. And, some other times, she was only required to be an actress, sometimes playing Sherlock's friend, Sherlock's girlfriend, Sherlock's daughter and why not, to give her own personal view about some other case. There were a few occasions when she had to comfort little children who had witnessed cruel deaths and other nasty things, or she would treat their wounds and assure them they would be OK, that the Super Detective Sherlock was going to catch the bad guys.

Somehow, Mary filled that empty place John had left when he died. Even though no one would have never been able to fill such a place, Mary did her best, and after every successful or unsuccessful, solved or unsolved case, she would sit down and write about it. But it was only a few years ago that she'd tried writing up some of her notes and sending them to some book publishers and editors. They had been rejected eight times before she got a phone call and a few days later, there she was with Sherlock, signing the papers off and waiting for the first book to be published.

The first one contained the first cases John had written about. As they were on the Internet, on his blog, most of them had to be edited and re written, and although Sherlock rejected the idea at first, they had to "invent" a few cases to make them look completely different from the ones that had already been published on the Internet many years ago.

Mary once asked him to be the one in charge of writing the prologue, the epilogue and the acknowledgement bits, but the one thing Sherlock insisted on writing was always the same:

_To John._

All the books were dedicated to John.

All of them.

"Grandpa, are you going to show us your pictures when you were young? You promised," says Florence and Sherlock nods.

"Only if you eat all your vegetables."

Eventually the kids eat everything, and they wait for their grandpa to sit on his armchair. They are already sitting on chairs, on either side of it so the two of them are going to be not only close to their favourite grandpa but close enough to look at the photos he has in a thick photo album.

Sherlock sighs tiredly when he sits between the kids, feeling his knees aching.

Time has passed for him.

Not only has his haired turned white and his skin wrinkly; he now has aching knees, an aching back and fragile bones, but a very young lively mind. He still visits his Mind Palace now and then, whenever he feels his memories fading away and realises it is becoming hard to remember some things, such as the day he got married to John, they day they met, how his flat at Baker Street looked, some of his friends, many of whom are dead now.

"This is me and my brother Mycroft when we were teenagers," says Sherlock as he shows them the first picture. He's standing next to his brother and in front of a Christmas tree. Both of them have serious expressions in their faces. Sherlock catches Florence' eyes staring at the differences between himself and Mycroft. While he had black curls and gray and alien eyes, Mycroft's hair was completely reddish brown, straight and his eyes were green.

"You had dark hair!" says the girl, completely amazed by how different her grandpa was.

"Yes."

Hamish points at Mycroft's figure with his little finger. "Grandpa Mycroft big!"

"No, Hamish. Mycroft wasn't big. He was _fat_," corrects the old detective and Hamish giggles.

Sherlock shows them the next picture. It's one of John and him. Their first picture together. They are cheek to cheek, both smiling together, very happy.

"This is me and John."

Florence frowns. "Who is he?"

"John was my husband."

"Where is he now, grandpa Sherlock?"

Kids always ignore death. They do not think of it. Death is always the last thing they think about. Florence asked where his John was because still being a child, she can't conceive of the idea that he has died. She has known his grandpa Sherlock since she was born, and she has never met the blond, blue-eyed John that Sherlock has shown her. The detective knows she's thinking John may be away, or maybe they have separated.

But this John, the John in his pictures is dead.

However, Sherlock doesn't reply immediately. He keeps showing them pictures of the day of his wedding, of one of John's birthdays, one of them on the sitting room, and lots more John had left for him with Mrs Hudson, who had handed them to him before dying.

"In this one you have blond hair!" says Florence as she points a picture of Sherlock.

"It was for a case. John almost fainted when he saw me."

Florence asks again. "Where is he now, grandpa?"

Sherlock looks at Hamish who has already fallen asleep next to him and places an arm around Florence' thin shoulders. "He died many years ago."

"Why? Was he ill?"

"Yes."

"And you couldn't help him?"

The old detective shakes his head and a little tear falls from his eye. "No. He just died."

"I'm sorry, granddad," Florence' voice is a mere whisper when both hear a car pulling on the road close to the house. A tall, blond haired man is getting out the car, and walking just behind him is Mary.

"Daddy!" shouts Florence and runs to hug her father and tell him all the good stories her grandpa had told them, how delicious the food she ate was, about Anne and about all her days with her favourite grandpa.

The little girl also hugs her grandmother. Mary asks her if Sherlock has been lifting heavy weights, if he has been eating proper food. She asks her about the stories Sherlock told her and Mary assures her she's going to let her read one of her books soon.

"Hello, dad," John shakes Sherlock's hand and hugs him. "How are you? I hope they haven't caused you too much trouble."

"Hello, John. No, they behaved, they are very good kids,"

"Do you see now, dad? I told you Hamish and I would behave and that we were going to be good kids to grandpa Sherlock," says Florence proudly**,** and Sherlock pats her head.

John proceeds to wake his little son Hamish when Mary hugs Sherlock and stares at him for a moment. "What's wrong?"

"Why do you ask?"

"Sherlock, you look... are you sure you're OK? Have you been taking your medication? Have you been checking on your blood pressure? Has Anne -."

"I've been taking my medication, I've been checking on my blood pressure and Anne has come to help me. I'm fine."

Mary nods, but she's still worried. She immediately steps into the kitchen and puts the kettle on. John asks his children to pack their clothes and toys because they are going back home soon. They reluctantly follow his father's orders and leave the three adults alone. Sherlock remains in his position in his armchair and John sat opposite him and takes a small object out from his pocket and frowns.

"I can't even leave them alone one afternoon?"

Sherlock curls his lips when he sees his godson going out the house to make phone calls. He's just like Mycroft. Since he was very young and when he started studying politics, John worked with Mycroft at his office and a few years ago he occupied Mycroft's position. Now he is the British Government, but unlike Mycroft, he doesn't use his power to frighten people, or at least, if he does, Sherlock doesn't know about it yet.

"I brought you the latest book," says Mary as she puts down a tray with tea and cookies.

"I will read it tonight."

"Mum, don't forget about the BBC."

Mary nods. "Oh yes, thanks for reminding me, John. Sherlock, the writers and the leading actors would like to meet you again, just to make sure you agree with the scripts and that everything is accurate."

"Next week would do?"

"That would be OK, yes. They'll start filming soon."

"Will they film everything in Baker Street?"

"Yes. The building is empty anyway, hope you don't mind."

Sherlock shakes his head. "Not at all."

A year after they had finally met, Sherlock and Mary continued seeing each other, and eventually they became very good friends. Sometimes she would go to Baker Street, or sometimes he would pick her up after her shifts had finished and then they would go out to have dinner, sometimes lunch or sometimes tea, depending on the time. They barely talked about John, and despite Mary's insistence, Sherlock preferred not to visit John and Hamish's graves. No matter how many times he was told John would love to see him there, Sherlock never went back there again. It hurt, of course it hurt. But the letter and the pictures John left him were something Sherlock had to hold on to the past, and to remember. They weren't enough, but at least it was something. He can still remember John telling him not to ever go back there. And Sherlock keeps his promise.

Their friendship made Sherlock realise how much he needed someone like Mary, a real friend in which he could trust, talk about everything. Mary was always there when he needed her, when sometimes his dark nights were too long, when he felt he couldn't fight any more. She was always there to make him remember the promises he had made, to John, to Mrs Hudson and to her. He promised it, Sherlock promised it – that he was going to fight, that he was not going to surrender and that he was going to live, because John was coming. He was going to come for him. One day.

Nurse Morstan continued working at the same clinic; she continued helping the same kids, new ones and she also met new parents and new worried faces. She went back to university to study and become a doctor. It was hard, but every time she felt as if she was giving up, she remembered where she was, who was helping her and, most important, she remembered John. When the first practices started and she felt helpless, clueless about something, she thought about John and what he would do. Those memories of his kind, reassuring words, tender smile and soft voice were on her mind every time she faced an ill child. And after years, after so many hours studying and practising, Nurse Morstan became Doctor Mary Morstan.

Mary eventually forgot the love she once felt for John Watson and barely talked about him any more. She grew out of him, she left John behind and even though she felt love wasn't something she deserved, one day she met the one. He was a very handsome, tender and funny man. And after so much pain and loneliness, Mary Morstan got married. But the happiest day of her life was the day she discovered she was pregnant. And soon after she found out it was a boy, she promised she was going to name him _John_.

Sherlock was happy for her, because she was going to have the family she had longed for so long. She was married to an honest man, someone who deserved her and truly loved her. Mary's husband was capable of giving his own life for her, and Sherlock was sure he didn't need to worry about anything.

_"He's so little."_

_Mary smiled at his friend, who was holding her baby John for the first time a few hours after he was born. "We want you to be his godfather."_

_The detective asked her if she was sure. Being a godfather meant he was going to be like a father to John in case something happened to his father; he was going to be like a second father. He asked Mary if she was being serious and she didn't hesitate to give her answer. Both parents were sure Sherlock was going to be a very good uncle and that he would love John. _

Sherlock felt proud, happy, he felt as if it was a dream. He was holding in his arms a tiny baby. His eyes sparkled with tears when he thought about John Watson, his John, and he remembered his letter and what he had asked him to do.

Three years later, he had to do the very thing that he had asked Mary whether she was sure he would be able to do. Her husband died in a car accident and Mary was alone. Again Sherlock and Mary found themselves in front of a grave. Mary was holding a crying three-year-old John, and Sherlock was next to her, reassuring her that everything was going to be fine.

Mary didn't have anyone close, and as her husband was the one who worked, she soon found herself surrounded by bills that she couldn't pay.

And Baker Street was far too big for Sherlock.

_"Move with me."_

_Mary almost spilled all the tea she had made. "What?"_

_"You heard me, Mary."_

_"I can't."_

_Sherlock frowned, making those wrinkles between his eyes deeper and deeper. "Why? You can't afford your actual flat, and you have bills to pay. Mrs Hudson's old place is empty,"_

_"It's very kind of you, Sherlock. But you don't need to -."_

_"It's the most logical option. You won't be paying any rent and I can take care of John so you can go back to work."_

_Mary smiled. Certainly living in Baker Street would help her a lot, and not having to pay any rent would guarantee her more money to raise John and to give him the best. Sherlock would help her with her son, but she couldn't accept his offer._

_"I can't accept your offer," she replied, placing her cup back in the saucer._

_Sherlock looked at her from head to toe, just like he had the first time they had talked to each other, when the detective wanted to deduce something about her and spill it out without mercy. But this time he didn't want to hurt her. "You think I'm doing this to redeem. You believe I'm trying to apologise for what I did to you years ago when we met."_

_Mary hesitated for a moment, but then she nodded._

_"He once told me this is what friends do, and you are my friend. You need a place to stay and I can help you. Let me help you, Mary."_

_..._

They talk about the kids, about the weather, about the hives Sherlock keeps in the back of the garden and about the next fair of the village in which the old detective will be participating. The hours pass by and John says he has to go, that he has important meetings tomorrow, so does Mary, with the publishers and editors of her books.

"Go and say goodbye to grandpa," orders John as he carries the children's luggage and toys to his car. Mary follows behind him, carrying a few jars of honey Sherlock has given her, leaving the old detective alone with the kids.

"Dad says we can't stay, that we have to go to school soon," says Florence, clearly disappointed.

Sherlock smiles at her and nods. He hugs her and press her small figure against his chest. He does the same with Hamish, who is practically asleep. "Promise me you will be good to your parents and that you will take care of your grandmother. Can you promise me that, Florence, Hamish?"

Both children nod and Florence cries in his arms. She always does it when she's about to leave, but this time Sherlock can't stop his own tears as well. He kisses Hamish's forehead, then Florence's and gives each of them a blue scarf. One was a present from his mother and the other was the one his John gave him as a Christmas present many, many years ago. He softly and carefully ties them to their necks and tells them to use the scarfs in winter and to take good care of them because they are old and mean a lot to him.

"Be always good, and don't ever forget I love you."

"I love you too, grandpa Sherlock. Will you come for Christmas?" asks Florence.

Sherlock smiles. "I will try. Now let's go, I'll walk you to the car. Your dad must be waiting for you."

The old man gives a last hug and a kiss to each of them and then carries Hamish with one arm and takes Florence's hand with his free hand and walks with them to John's car.

"I will see you next week then? Are you sure you don't need anything?" asks Mary.

"I'm fine. I will go to London next week, yes."

Mary takes the detective's hand and smiles. Sherlock smiles in returns and thanks her for the book and for visiting him. He tells her to take care of herself. Sherlock really wants to tell her the truth, but he won't do it. He won't tell her or John or the kids that this is the last time he will see them.

Sherlock won't tell them that he's going to die tonight, even when he wants to do so, deep inside. He wants to tell them he has been very happy and that he was the happiest person in the world when Mary chose him to be John's godfather. He wants to tell John he is proud of him and that he hopes he has been the father John needed since his real father died when he was only a child. Sherlock wants to tell Mary how fortunate he is to have her as a friend, and how thankful he is for her company and her friendship. Sherlock wants to tell his grandchildren he's proud of them and that wherever he's going after tonight, he will be looking after them and that he will always love them.

When Mary gets into the car, John shakes Sherlock's hand and hugs him again. "Promise me you'll take care of yourself, dad. Remember what the doctor told you about lifting heavy things and take your medication."

Sherlock nods. "And you take care of your mother and your family. Take care of yourself, John."

John smiles. Sherlock can still remember him when he was a baby, then a little boy, and when he become the man he is now. Sometimes Sherlock feels this John, his godson, is the son his husband would have loved to have. John is honest and he's a man who possesses a good heart. Sherlock regrets not being like his godson when he was his age.

"I will, good bye dad!"

Just as John did many, many years ago, Sherlock says good bye to the children he loves so much, to Mary and to John, who are like a real family to him. Just like John did many, many years ago, Sherlock starts to say good bye to his own life.

The four of them wave their hands and Sherlock stays on the road, looking at the car going away until he can't see it on the road. When he goes back to his house, he can feel a warm breeze surrounding him.

Now he's sure.

He's dying tonight.

Sherlock sits on his chair again and starts reading Mary's book. He reads it quickly, and while doing it, he remembers those adventures, those cases, the clues, the criminals and their methods. While reading it, Sherlock goes back in time, to a past in which he was young, in which he could run, shout, jump and solve all the crimes and puzzles that Lestrade's division couldn't.

Lestrade. Sherlock misses Lestrade. He misses him, even his own ineptitude and his stupid team. Sherlock closes his eyes and remembers Sally Donovan and Anderson. He remembers their tantrums, their nasty comments and all the deductions he did for them. He also recalls other people in the force such as Dimmock, and the other officers. It was always so amusing to work with them and wonder how they got to keep their jobs when they couldn't solve a damn crime without his help.

Sherlock also remembers Molly. The clumsy, sweet and good-hearted Molly Hooper. She had a nice, happy life, but the old detective still misses her. He regrets being the person he was to her many years ago, so rude, so mean. But he asked for her forgiveness, and they became good friends. At least he did it before she left him.

They are all dead.

Sherlock is about to finish reading the first part of the book when it suddenly occurs to him how absurd it is that he has outlived all of them is. After so many years, they are all dead, and he's the only one left in this world. He's the only one who can recall those adventures, those nights running around London. Sometimes Sherlock finds it quite unbearable that after all the things he had done, he has outlived all those people. He didn't know it then and he still doesn't entirely, but they were all good people. Sherlock thinks it's unfair.

It's unfair he has outlived them. It's unfair he is the last one who has buried them all. Sherlock has buried them all; he has stood in front of their graves, left them flowers and cried for them.

They had all left him, and he's alone now.

But being close to his own death, Sherlock realises it was all part of a plan.

And he accepts this.

As John did many, many years ago, Sherlock accepts this plan, the plan of his own life and he also accepts the inevitable.

Sherlock hasn't finished reading the book when he hears a car pulling close to his house and then some steps getting closer to his front door. He deduces that the steps belong to a man, an old man who also carries an umbrella. He's used to carrying an umbrella. The man knocks his front door. Sherlock already knows who it is.

"Come in."

"Leaving the door open, dear brother?"

Sherlock curls his lips, "I knew you would come."

"What made you think so?"

"I simply knew. Tea?"

Mycroft Holmes nods. "Please."

Sherlock goes to his kitchen and prepares more tea. On his way back to the living room, he takes three envelopes with him. He has been working for this, for tonight. He doesn't want to die without leaving his words to the people he loves. Like John did. When John died he left words for everyone, and somehow he also left hope.

Sherlock wants to do the same. He wants to die leaving hope. That's the last thing he can do.

"How's the country?" asks Sherlock as he hands his brother a cup of tea.

"You could have asked John."

"He wouldn't have told me."

Mycroft curls his lips "Ha-ha. You know he doesn't like to discuss politics."

"Not like you, you mean."

The older man laughs and looks at his brother. He also looks at the three envelopes on the table and sighs inwardly because he already knows why he has come and why Sherlock needs him tonight.

John Watson was right. He wrote, in his last letter addressed to him, that everyone knows when they are close to death, when they are close to the end of their lives.

When their father died, Mycroft had promised him he was going to protect and take care of his little brother and his mother. The years passed by and he had thought he had successfully fulfilled his father's wishes until he had had to rescue Sherlock from the hell of having cocaine and other drugs in his system. As soon as he got him into rehab, Mycroft Holmes had had to promise her mother he was going to protect Sherlock, and that he was going to make sure he had a happy life. He thought he had successfully fulfilled his mother's wishes the day John Watson had appeared in their lives.

The young Mycroft Holmes had known there was going to be a day on which he would have to bury his parents. Some people would say that's life. Some people would say it's natural for a son to bury his parents, not the other way around. So Mycroft supposed it was fine. He had worn his best suits and he had given his parents the respects and the place they deserved after death. However, Mycroft never thought he was going to be the one who had to bury his brother-in-law. He always thought one of them, Sherlock or John, was going to bury each other eventually when one of them died. But he never thought he would have to take care of John's body to protect it from his brother, and because John wanted it that way.

Now, forty years later, at almost ninety years old, Mycroft thought his younger brother would outlive him. He even had a will and words written in which the only one who would have any kind of right over his death body would be Sherlock. But today after Sherlock called saying he needed him, Mycroft Holmes remembered John Watson's letter and his last words. People know when they are close to death. And now Mycroft knows he will have to bury another member of the Holmes family.

"I called you because I needed to talk to you. I also need to ask you some favours," says Sherlock as he takes the three envelopes with his hands.

Mycroft nods. "I'm all ears."

Sherlock doesn't hesitate. Why would he hesitate right now? He knows it, and he's sure it will happen. "I'm dying tonight and I need to give you this." He hands Mycroft one envelope which has his name written on it. "Inside you'll find my will, and the papers of all my properties: Baker Street, this house, and my bank account. There are also instructions to follow. You may want to sleep on it."

The older Holmes nods while taking the envelope. "Please."

It would amaze everyone to see how they talk about death so carelessly, so freely.

"I don't want any kind of funeral or people saying how good man I was. The only thing I need you to do is to take my body and burn it with my coat, my wedding ring and the letter you will find inside my breast pocket. Throw my ashes in the exact place where you threw John's. That's all."

Mycroft knows Sherlock meant the letter John left to Mrs Hudson asking her to give it to Sherlock only in certain circumstances.

"You don't want a grave next to John's?"

Sherlock shakes his head. "I can't be there. He asked me not to go back there."

Mycroft knows he has to repeat what he said many, many years ago when D.I. Lestrade called him, telling him he had found Sherlock sunk in a mixture of water and blood. Even at that moment, Sherlock never listened.

And the elder brother wants to risk his own luck.

"Sherlock, I know I have told you this before, but you have never listened. John was never there."

The old detective frowns, even when he already knows what his elder brother is about to tell him. "What do you mean?"

"That day you visited John's grave, you said you saw him. You said you talked to him and that he told you not to go there again. The caretaker found you unconscious." Mycroft pauses to take a deep breath and then continues. "I had the CCTV footage. You were alone, he was never there. As soon as that little boy left, you fainted. That conversation you think you had with John - it never existed."

Sherlock, to Mycroft's surprise, nods, defeated as he sips more of his tea. "I know. That's why I never went back. I was scared. And I'm still scared, Mycroft. I don't know if I will see John again, I don't know what will become of me after tonight - and I'm scared."

For the first time in many, many years, Sherlock confesses he's afraid. He tells his brother he's scared and that he knows he can't stop this moment. Even when Mycroft asks him if he knows it for sure, Sherlock assures him he knows. Sherlock tells Mycroft he's going to die tonight and that he's scared. And for the first time in many, many years, Mycroft allows himself to cry in front of his little brother. His tears fall silently down his pale cheeks and Sherlock, in an attempt to finish this moment as fast as he can, hands Mycroft two more letters.

"Give them to John and Mary tomorrow. I wasn't sure whether I should write something for Florence and Hamish. Tell John that inside his letter I wrote something for the kids. He will know what to do with it."

Both know they are not children any more. Mycroft knows he can't stop Sherlock's tears like when he was a little boy, he can't protect him any more. And Sherlock knows he can't just run to his brother's arms, and ask for help. They are not children any more. Mycroft can't protect him from death. No one can.

It's an unspoken agreement that Mycroft has to leave and go back to London.

"Tell everyone you found my dead body when you came to visit me. I already told the girl who helps me with the house to take the day off, so you will be the only one..." Sherlock pauses. He takes a deep breath and then continues. "You should be the only one to find my dead body."

Mycroft nods and take his umbrella, getting ready to leave. The brothers are facing each other, and two tears fall from Sherlock's eyes. Both brothers look into each other's eyes and remember their childhood, their conflicts, their fights, the Christmas dinners. They remember their parents, their strict father and their caring mother. Sherlock remembers Mycroft calling her Mummy, while he always called her Mother.

Mycroft remembers hugging his little brother every time he was told not to do strange experiments. Sherlock would ran to his arms, and Mycroft would kiss his wild and dark curls. Now Mycroft looks at his little brother, who has gotten taller, he's not a little boy any more. His wild and dark curls are now all white. His grayish eyes are not full of life as they used to be many years ago.

Sherlock looks at Mycroft's tired, green eyes. He looks at his funny nose, the same nose he remembers their father having. He looks at the flat stomach Mycroft has. It looks like he has stuck to the diet for all these past years. Maybe that's the reason why he's still alive, Sherlock thinks. And he knows he will live a few years more. Sherlock also remembers the times he was rescued, the times Mycroft had to deal with his bad temper and his mood swings.

So many things, so many fights, so many arguments, so many hurtful words, all that shouting. All the unspoken words between them, the missing Christmases and birthdays. Both Mycroft and Sherlock agree they should have been closer. They are brothers. Mrs Hudson was right. Family is all we have in the end.

Mycroft offers his hand and Sherlock takes it. Sherlock hugs Mycroft and both brothers silently cry and let some tears flow out their eyes.

"Caring isn't an advantage, Mycroft."

"There wasn't anything wrong with us, Sherlock."

Neither of them say what they want to say. It's pointless, because both already know it. Both are proud of each other. Both had made unfortunate decisions during their lives, both had to endure pain, loneliness and both suffered from empty and broken hearts. However, both had chased their dreams. Both had fought for what they considered, was what they wanted to be. Both had fought against everyone who told them they were nothing. Sherlock didn't become the pirate he wanted to be, but he became the detective who saved people and who, for many years, lowered the crime rates of London. Mycroft didn't become the King of the world, but he became an important person in his country, and without his help, hard work and dedication to the country he loved with all his heart, the world would have probably have been different.

They exchange unspoken and silent _"I'm sorry's"_ and Mycroft leaves, but not without a jar of his brother's latest home made honey. They both know it is the last time they will see each other.

Mycroft remembers that stormy day his mother came back home holding a tiny baby who had dark hair. He recalls her soft voice telling him it was his brother Sherlock. He also remembers taking his little hand in his, stroking the soft skin of his face. Now more than eighty years later, Mycroft says good bye to his brother. And the older Holmes thinks he has successfully fulfilled his mother and his father's wishes, and John's as well.

And finally, both brothers are in peace.

It's late and Sherlock can't eat. He doesn't feel like eating. He sits on his chair again and opens his photo album. He opens it at the point where he left it, when Florence and Hamish were still there, before John came to pick them up. Sherlock looks at the old pictures and lets his fingertips travel over John's face. There is a big picture of them together, taken the day they got married. John looked so happy, so beautiful with his tuxedo, with his blondish hair combed to one side. His big smile and his round nose make Sherlock laugh. John's nose was cute.

The last picture in the album is the last picture they took together. It was a Christmas, and both were holding hands, standing in front of a nice if overdecorated tree. John was holding his hand, both looked happy and complete with each other's company. Both were still wearing their rings. Well, Sherlock is _still_ wearing his wedding ring.

When Sherlock closes the album, he decides he has to take a shower. And as John did that cold night many, many years ago, he washes thoroughly, trying to erase every trace of stress, and he even manages to believe that he's getting himself clean for the important meeting he has tonight.

Sherlock feels warm and secure after the shower. And then he realises it's time now.

While he dresses himself, he stops at every scar and smiles because he can remember the reasons for them. The reasons why he has scars on his body. Some of them are the product of many nights and days chasing criminals, solving crimes and proving how clever he was. Others are the product of his own sadness. His wrists show how stupid he was, and Sherlock remembers the day he almost killed himself in a futile attempt to see John again.

Tonight it's time to have some rest.

Sherlock climbs on his bed, sits and rests his back against the headboard. He looks at the polished ring on his left hand and he closes his eyes and breathes. He inhales and he lets out a deep breath. He knows that very soon he won't open his eyes again. His heart will stop beating and his lungs will also stop working.

Sherlock is afraid. He fears and the reason why he's so scared is because he doesn't know what will happen. He has waited for this day for so long, but now he doesn't know what to do, how he should feel. It is a mystery to Sherlock what will happen tonight. He spent years after John's death looking for a way to redeem, to atone himself, to find John again. He knows he had – and still has - demons inside him. He has tendencies, he tends to destroy everything he touches. Everything Sherlock once touched rotted and died. It doesn't seem to happen any more, but still, Sherlock believes he's destructive. He has always been.

The old man looks at the old teddy bear which is lying next to him on his big bed. That teddy bear which belonged to his John, to his husband who died many, many years ago. That teddy bear should have belonged to their child, to the child Sherlock killed before it had even been conceived.

Sherlock asks himself if he has fixed all the things he had once destroyed. He wonders if he had atoned, if all the demons he has inside will, in some moment, go away. Sherlock asks himself if he has paid for his crimes. He can't even conceive of why he has outlived so many good people when he had killed John Watson.

A young, blond haired, blue-eyed, short man opens the door and walks slowly over until he's standing next to the man he is looking for. Until he is next to Sherlock. He kneels and caresses Sherlock's wet cheek and wipes his tears away. He caresses every wrinkle, his cheekbones, his forehead. He lets a thumb travel on Sherlock's warm lips and smiles.

Sherlock does not look surprised, not at all. He knew this was going to happen. Sherlock knew this was meant to happen.

"Have you come for me?" he says, and all the fear disappears.

John nods. "Yes Sherlock, I've come for you."

This time he won't faint. This time his mind won't be imagining the conversation. _This_ time, tonight, Sherlock will face his victim, his crime, his sins.

Tonight Sherlock is going to die.


	12. Forgiveness

**ATONEMENT**

**FINAL CHAPTER:**

**FORGIVENESS**

Sherlock asks himself if he has fixed all the things he had once destroyed. He wonders if he had atoned, if all the demons he has inside will, in some moment, go away. Sherlock asks himself if he has paid for his crimes. He can't even conceive of why he has outlived so many good people when he had killed John Watson.

A young, blond haired, blue-eyed, short man opens the door and walks slowly over until he's standing next to the man he is looking for. Until he is next to Sherlock. He kneels and caresses Sherlock's wet cheek and wipes his tears away. He caresses every wrinkle, his cheekbones, his forehead. He lets a thumb travel over Sherlock's warm lips and smiles.

Sherlock does not look surprised, not at all. He knew this was going to happen. Sherlock knew this was meant to happen.

"Have you come for me?" he says, and all the fear disappears.

John nods. "Yes Sherlock, I've come for you."

This time he won't faint. This time his mind won't be imagining the conversation. _This_ time, tonight, Sherlock will face his victim, his crime, his sins.

Tonight Sherlock is going to die.

Tick-tock,

Tick-tock,

Tick-tock,

Tick-tock,

Tick-tock...

For more than forty years, Sherlock's clock has been striking the hours. Tonight the clock will stop.

Sherlock smiles and lets out a relieved sigh. "You don't know how much I wanted you to come for me, John. Every night I closed my eyes thinking I would never wake up, that I'd be somewhere else with you. It took you forty years."

John chuckles. There's something in Sherlock's words which is slightly wrong. "Long time, isn't it?"

"It felt like a lifetime."

"You old man! Now you're exaggerating!," says John, jokingly. "But look at you, you look as handsome as I remember. Who would have thought Sherlock Holmes would look this sexy at the age of eighty two?"

Sherlock rolls his eyes and laughs. His laughter becomes contagious and John laughs as well.

"Don't lie to me, John Watson. I'm not sexy, I'm old. I have white hair, wrinkles and two aching knees."

"Ha-ha. Well, a little birdie told me the old ladies at the church don't think the same! They find you quite attractive, you know."

The old man frowns. "That's the problem when you move to the country side, you see. Lots of widows hoping to get married for a second or a third time, looking for a husband who will help them with their knitting, who will listen to their monologues about their rheumatics and their hip problems for twenty-four-seven."

"Miss Woolf was nice. She would have been a very sweet wifey."

"I once delivered two jars of honey to her house and she practically jumped on me, John."

John explodes, laughing loudly. Sherlock joins him. A few years ago, the very small village that he had moved to organized a special contest in which all the locals could exhibit their products. The old ladies showed their roses and different kind of flowers. Some men and old couples exhibited the vegetables and fruits, product of their own orchard. Sherlock was the only one who presented his own jars of honey and he even took a hive with him, and explained how his bees worked, and the jury, all old ladies from sixty to eighty, decided he was the winner. That was the moment when Sherlock Holmes caught the attention of the local old widows and spinsters. He soon became quite famous in the village, not only because he was the amazing detective who came from London, but because of his honey and his bee hives.

One of the interested ladies was Miss Woolf, who used to be Mrs Smith, an old lady of approximately sixty years old who almost drove Sherlock crazy. She would buy one or two jars of honey every week, she would casually run into Sherlock at the shops and sometimes she would invite him for tea at her cottage. Sherlock didn't dislike her completely, she was nice, amenable. Sherlock deduced she used to be a very caring and sweet wife, but she was very lonely after her husband's death. Even if he knew she had a very good heart, Sherlock only liked her as a neighbour and nothing else.

"Why don't you tell me about these last forty years, huh? You said it was a lifetime, so you'd better tell me everything," says John as he sits next to Sherlock on his bed. Even when he already knows everything about Sherlock, he wants him to tell him. John wants to hear it from his own lips. John has missed Sherlock for so long that tonight, he wants to hear his voice. Only his voice.

The detective nods and looks into his blue eyes before talking. "Mrs Hudson died a year and a half after you. She left 221 Baker Street to me. Her nieces were quite nice, I've never expected them to be like that since I was _"the insufferable tenant who had always put her life in danger"_, as they once called me many years ago after Moriarty and my fake suicide."

"I remember them saying it, yes."

"Molly married Bertie, you knew him, the owner of "The King's Arms". They had a daughter, Olivia, who's the new manager of the pub. She has managed to start a new chain of pubs all around London and Dublin. That girl has brains for business. Molly and Bertie were so proud of their daughter." Sherlock closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. "They died a few years ago. Bertie was very ill, and a few months after his death Molly died. I suppose she couldn't stand a life without her husband."

John nods. He knows they died. And Sherlock is right, Molly couldn't endure the pain, she couldn't live a life without Bertie, who was the love of her life. Molly couldn't just continue, even when she had a daughter who needed her. But as everything else, it was part of a plan.

Like his life, like Sherlock's.

"I am very sorry for Molly. But I'm happy she got to be with Bertie. He adored her."

"Lestrade died as well. Too much coffee, said the doctors," explains Sherlock and John takes his hand. "I can't believe I have outlived some many people."

John smiles. Of course Sherlock was meant to outlive so many people. It was written, and even when it's sad, Sherlock was bound to bury his friends. He was bound to bury them, to visit their graves and to be the last one in this world.

After a long silence, John asks after Mary.

"And what happened with Mary?"

"She is my friend, and my ex-wife" says Sherlock, but he looks at John and twists his mouth, confused. "You don't look surprised."

"Why would I be surprised?"

The old detective frowns. "We did marry."

"I'm not quite following you, Sherlock," says John, confused.

"What's going on in your brain? God did something to your brain, didn't he?"

John laughs. "For God's sake, Sherlock."

"I thought you'd be upset."

"Why would I be upset? Did Mrs Hudson give you my letter?"

"Yes," Sherlock nods.

"Well, I wrote that you needed to find love again, have a family and be happy. And you did all of that, didn't you? So, why would I be upset?"

"I was married to you."

"I died, Sherlock."

Sherlock nods and looks down at the ring on his left hand. There's an awkward and long silence in which both men don't say a word. John closes his eyes and listens to Sherlock's soft, calm breathing. Even the beat of his old heart can be heard, and the old detective takes his hands. It surprises him to feel John's hand warm, not cold as on that day on which he found his dead body.

"I asked her three years after her husband's death. I waited the proper time until she got over her loss," explains Sherlock, breaking the silence between them.

John smiles, to Sherlock surprise. "And what happened?"

"It was John's six year old birthday. We went out to have dinner, the three of us. When we got back to the flat we put John on bed and then we were alone in the sitting room, drinking tea and talking about the boiler, whether we needed to have it repaired when I asked her if she would marry me."

"What did she tell you?" asks John, curious.

"She said we couldn't because we were friends."

"And what did you say?"

"I told her you were also my friend and we got married."

"But we loved each other."

"Mary said she loved me."

"Maybe she meant as a friend?"

Sherlock shakes his head. "Mycroft said we were confused because we lived together. She used to make breakfast and dinner and I would wash the dishes. We were raising John, we went to see his plays, we went to the parent's evenings together. Mycroft said we were like a couple, but without the kissing and the intimacy a proper couple would have."

"And then what happened?"

"We both knew we would only be replacing our dead husbands. But on the other hand, she wanted me to adopt John. She didn't have anyone to take care of him in case something happened to her. And I was his godfather, but legally speaking, if something happened to her, I wouldn't have any rights to her son."

"You adopted John?"

The old detective nods. "We got married and then I adopted John."

John smiles. "I'm very happy for you, Sherlock."

"Don't be. We divorced soon afterwards," says Sherlock and smiles. "I wasn't a good husband."

"What happened there?"

"We were friends. And even when we tried, we couldn't love each other as much as we wanted to," Sherlock smiles, and suddenly he remembers something. "Mary was nice. But I knew she would be happier with someone else. John... I thought you cheated on me with her. I even asked Mycroft if you had ever engaged in any kind of relationship with her."

"Why did you think that?"

"Because I saw her and it was written all over her face. She loved you."

"Yes, she did."

"Did you know?"

"Yes," replies John and looks down at his hand and his own fingers, entwined with Sherlock's. "I knew. But I... she was very nice, sweet and she was there when I needed her. But I couldn't love her. I could have never loved her as she wanted me to, I only loved her a friend. I regret not having told her that, and not telling her how grateful I was for having her as a friend. The same with Molly and Greg. They were amazing people."

Sherlock nods, and suddenly he glances at the book on his bedside table. "Mary is writing."

"Really?"

"She used to help me with a few cases -."

"When you say a few, I know you mean a lot."

Sherlock chuckles. "It amazes me to see how much you know me, John."

"Of course I know you. And I also know you dragged her to every crime scene in which you needed a medical point of view or simply to annoy Lestrade."

"Yes, I did. But she enjoyed it. She worked with me for years until she got married and then until John was born. She wrote everything about our cases together, and now there are a lot of books about them, casebooks, comics. The BBC is filming a TV series. And there's a good actor who's going to portray you."

"God, are you supervising that?"

"Mary's in charge of that. The writers and the actors were keen to meet me and ask me whether I agree with their work. The leading actor dyed his hair so he would look like me. And the actor who's going to portray you asked about you, about what I remembered about you. I gave him your walking stick. He's going to use it while filming the first episode; I hope you don't mind."

"Not at all. But I don't know if I'd like to see someone trying to be me, so to speak."

"Neither do I, but I'm dying tonight, am I not?"

"Yes you are."

They fall into a long silence again, only interrupted by Sherlock's quiet sobs. There are endless tears falling from his gray, tired eyes.

"Why are you crying? You haven't cried for years."

"I'm crying because I've missed you. It has been very long years, John."

"I've missed you too," admits John with a nod.

"John, do you think I've... atoned myself? Have I paid for all the things I did to you?"

John smiles and looks at the photographs on the walls. Some of them are old pictures, those old pictures he left in one last attempt to think, to believe, Sherlock still loved him when he was about to die. And next to Sherlock, on his bedside table, is a framed picture of him and Sherlock. They are both smiling, and Sherlock has an arm around John's waist. Both look happy in that picture.

_Atonement. _

_Do you think I've atoned myself?_ Such words John always imagined would never be pronounced by Sherlock. John always believed Sherlock never knew and would never say, would never apply them to himself. And yet, look at him now, crying, sobbing like a baby, asking John as if he were a jury if he had accomplished his conviction, if what he had done was the right thing, if the life he had after his death was good enough after having the privilege to outlive the man he killed.

"You haven't atoned yourself, Sherlock. And you haven't paid for anything," says John and for a moment, Sherlock fears what he will tell him, but when he looks at his smile, that strange sensation of fear inside his chest disappears. "What you have been doing all these past years was having the life you were always supposed to have. You have got a wonderful family, Sherlock. I'm very proud of you."

Sherlock's long and calloused fingers are entwined with John's short and soft ones. Something inside Sherlock makes him feel very happy. Seeing John, so young, so healthy, so happy, so full of life even when he's dead now, even when he's only something he cannot even explain, but he's John and he has come for him. This is the John he remembers, the John he has built inside his mind palace thanks to Mrs Hudson's help and thanks to John's last letter and those photographs he left, those photographs he looked for and didn't find until John's last gift was given to him.

John's hands are warm, soft. They are the exact opposite to the hands Sherlock had touched that morning forty years ago on the saddest day of his life. The detective had touched his face, his hands, and they were cold, lifeless. He had tasted John's still lips and they were bitter, cold. Sherlock had buried his face into John's chest, he had pressed his ear and his hands to his chest to feel John's heart beating and his lungs working, but they weren't. John's chest had been like a wall, there was nothing to listen, not a heartbeat, not a breath.

"You said we would grow old together, John. You promised it. You promised it and you left me alone," says Sherlock, not reproaching.

When Sherlock realised John was dead, he had shaken his shoulders, he had screamed promises and asked for forgiveness. He had cried on his chest, asking him why he had left him alone, what he would do without him and Sherlock had even reproached him for breaking his promise. John had promised they would be together, that they would grow old together, that he would never leave him alone.

John caresses Sherlock's knuckles with his thumb. "You also promised me the same. And you also left me alone, remember?"

There isn't a reproach. There isn't anger. There isn't even resentment. John isn't even asking for explanations, he's not a jury, he's not a judge. John is only making Sherlock see things. He needs Sherlock to accept his faults and understand he had never left him. John had only accomplished and done what had always been written in their destinies.

"I am sorry, John. You don't know how many nights I spent thinking how much I hurt you, why I even felt pleasure while hearing you crying. Why I ignored you and why I told you I wished you were dead," Sherlock cries and John is about to say something, but the old man continues. "I've deleted our memories together, and I couldn't bring them back. I want to delete that day I had you against the bookshelves, when I wanted to hit you until you asked for mercy, until you beg -."

"Sherlock, _sometimes you have to experience the pain to understand how it much it hurts_."

"I'm sorry, John. I am so sorry. I was crazy, I wanted to kick your body and break every bone. I had hatred in my chest, but not because of you - but because of me. I _hated_ myself for it. I _still_ hate myself for it."

John shakes his head. "Sherlock, I know many people have told you this, but some things are just meant to happen. That was just as meant to happen as Moriarty taking you away from me for three years. He had to take you away from me all that time so I could understand how much I loved you... _Sometimes you have to kill the one you love to understand what you have lost_. You couldn't have stopped yourself, no one could have. And if I could, I wouldn't have either."

"What do you mean?"

"You told me, Sherlock. You told me about your family and about the things you have to go through these last forty years. If I hadn't died, you wouldn't have been John's godfather, you wouldn't have married Mary, you wouldn't have had those lovely grandchildren you have. You wouldn't even have those bees you keep now."

"You knew."

"I knew it wasn't written in your destiny to grow old with me. I knew our love wasn't going to give us a child, but your friendship with Mary would give you one. I knew I wasn't going to be there with you when you found your first white hair, your first wrinkle on you face, when someone would call you _dad _and years later _grandpa_ for the first time in your life. I knew I wasn't going to be with you when you suffered from your aching knees, but I'm here with you now - now when you're about to go to sleep to never wake up again."

"But John, all those things, the life I had - that should have been your life, not mine! I didn't deserve that life. You deserved to have a family, to have friends and to have all the happiness of the world. I should have been the one dying forty years ago!"

"You did deserve what you had. Even when at the beginning you suffered, you wanted to die and you felt the pain was too much to endure, you _did_ deserve what you had because you fought for it. Every single day these last forty years you fought for your family and for yourself. You gave yourself a second chance - life gave you a second chance, Sherlock, and you took it. And it was written, please love, understand this: I wasn't meant to have a family, even when that was the only thing I wanted. And if I died, it was for something. And that something is your family."

"But in your letter, you asked me not to harm you again, not to do anything with your body because you knew I was going to hurt you. You knew I was capable of slicing up your body and feeding it to the dogs. You knew and you asked me, but I hit you with the bow of my violin until I had no more strength -."

"You did it because I couldn't defend myself. Have you never asked yourself why you didn't hit me that day, when you had me against the bookshelves? You had your fist ready, we were alone, it was the perfect moment to beat me to death, but you didn't do it. I was tired and the only thing I wanted was to die. I would have let you do it, to accelerate the process, but you stepped back and left. And all that hatred you said you had in your chest exploded when you realised I was not coming back. You wanted to be the only one to kill me, but I died before you could have the chance to do it by yourself."

Sherlock can't believe what John is saying. "Was I _meant_ to kill you?"

John takes a deep breath. He has come to take Sherlock, not to let him know things that may kill him before his time. These things hurt John, of course they do. But neither of them are going to be free souls until they accept the facts.

Until they accept what was written.

_Atonement._

"Yes."

"And you knew beforehand you were going to die because of me?"

John nods. "I've always known."

"You wrote that, if given the chance to change your life, you wouldn't do it. That you'd live everything all over again if that meant you'd be with me. Is that true?" asks Sherlock. It is a question he has wanted to ask John for many, many years.

"Of course. Even now if God gave me a chance to go back in time and bend my path to live another life, I wouldn't do it. I would only go back in time to meet you again in that lab at Bart's."

"Why, John? Why would you choose me again? No one can love me."

John smiles and shakes his head. "You have a family who love you to bits. Mary, your godson John, your grandchildren, Mycroft. Everyone loves you, even the girl who helps you with the house here, Sherlock. You can't say no one can love you. And I'd choose you again because I love you with all my heart, I can't choose anyone else but you. We were together, and we are always destined to be together."

"I'm sorry. I'm sorry for all those lovers, for the things you had to see," says Sherlock, talking about the lovebites, his shirts impregnated with his lovers' perfume.

"It's OK, Sherlock. It's -."

"It's not OK, John!" Sherlock takes a deep breath. "I am sorry. I've never wanted to hurt you. They were nothing to me, I... I don't know why I did it, John. Believe me, I don't know."

John only nods.

"I haven't found love. I could have never found anyone else. I couldn't replace you."

"You have found love, my dear. You have," John caresses Sherlock's hand while talking, "you have a wonderful godson, two amazing grandchildren who love you more than anything in this world and the best friend you can ask for: Mary. She loves you, and you love her as well, I know you do. And do you understand that you did all of that because you felt it? Because you let your heart rule your life? You haven't done anything just to please my wishes. You have lived a life because you wanted it. You never lived just to accomplish my wishes, you lived your life for _you_."

"Is that bad?"

"Of course not. That's all I wanted you to have. You can't imagine how happy I was for you when you forgave Mary, when you let her be your friend. Then when John was born and when you became his godfather. I've always been very happy and proud of all the decisions you've made all these past years. Even when you stopped thinking about me and started thinking of other people."

"How can you be happy with me forgetting you, John?"

"Because I knew you were giving yourself a second chance. If I had still been first in your mind, you wouldn't have let Mary become your friend, confidante, wife and biographer. You would have never loved John as you love him, as if he were your real son. And you would have never loved those kids as you love them. You love them so much you're willing to give your whole life for them, right?" Sherlock nods and John smiles. "See?"

"I am so sorry John. These last forty years have felt like a lifetime, I wanted to see you - I needed to say how sorry I am. You were my life, John. You were the man of my life, you were my soul, my heart. When I lost you, I died. You can't possibly imagine how much it hurt me, how much your absence hurt me -."

"I know what it's like, Sherlock."

"Please, John, forgive me. Please forgive me. I swear if I could go back in time I'd change everything. You can't know how much I want to go back to the days when we first loved each other. I need to be young again, I need to take your hand, to kiss your lips, to feel you again. I need you, please John, I'm begging you. Please," says Sherlock, and he cries. John cries with him as well but he doesn't say a word.

"Hush, love. You don't need to go back in time. You don't need to be young again to kiss me and to hold my hand. You don't need my forgiveness."

John lies next to Sherlock and takes the teddy bear in his hands. "I see you've found it."

"I am sorry, John."

"It's late, Sherlock. You have to sleep now," says John, only a mere whisper.

"John."

Sherlock is not asking him, Sherlock is calling him. Sherlock looks into John's blue eyes, lets out a deep breath and waits.

"Yes, Sherlock."

"Goodnight, John."

Sherlock waits. He waits for an answer. There must be an answer.

"Goodnight, Sherlock."

_Sometimes you have to see before you understand and then you will believe._

* * *

_When he opens his eyes, he finds himself lying on green grass, holding hands with the love of his life. Both are dressed as they were on the day they got married and he's smiling. Sherlock asks him why he smiles. And the other man stands up and offers his hand again and Sherlock can't deny his invitation. His aching knees are not bothering him anymore, nor the pain in his back, and Sherlock wonders what's happening._

_John hushes him and kisses him. He even assures him nothing will part them. Nothing._

_"Not even death?"_

_The younger man walks with him until they stop in front of a large lake. The water is so clear and blue that Sherlock agrees with him that it looks like a mirror. Both men sink down till their knees touch the green grass again and they look down into the water._

_Their reflections are clear. And the water, as a mirror, shows them their youth and the hope in their faces._

_There is nothing more. Just the two of them._

_Everything is about them. Just the two of them._

_And Sherlock Holmes is happy. He feels his heart beating inside his chest and his eyes sparkling. This is the place where he belongs, with the person he loves. And he only regrets that his presence here has taken him so long._

_"Nothing will part us. Never. Because I love you."_

_The dark haired man smiles and nods. They share a long and deep kiss till he breaks it._

_"I love you, John. I've always loved you."_

_John nods with him in agreement. This doesn't hurt. This isn't fake._

_This is Heaven._

* * *

My Dearest Sherlock,

I find myself writing this last letter, and all my hopes rest on the simplest but also the most wanted wish that one day, hopefully one day, you will get to read it. It isn't a matter of whether this letter will be given to you or not, whether Mrs Hudson will remember about this or not. It's a matter whether you really want to read my last words, if you wish to read what my heart has to say; things that I cannot say out loud.

I bless the day we met, I bless Mike for introducing me to you. I remember that day as if it was yesterday, when you winked at me and revealed your absurd, strange but mysterious name. I have to admit that, during these rainy, dark days, I close my eyes and I remember us both at that moment. Me, dealing with a limp and those ghosts from the war haunting me to no end, looking for hope. And you, looking for a companion, for someone you could hold in your arms to never let go.

I wish I could have realised it before, immediately after we met, just after we started solving crimes together. We were and we still are like two pieces of a jigsaw puzzle. Our hearts were broken, and when we put the remaining left inside our chests, together we became one. But we were and we are also as opposite as the day and the night are, as the light and the same darkness are, as the good and the bad and as the angels and the demons themselves are.

I've always loved you, since the first moment. When you left me for three years my life had no sense, my heart didn't have any reason left to keep on beating inside my chest and your empty chair, the silences you left and your absence hurt. I was ashamed because I realised the love I felt for you when you 'died'. I had to lose you, Sherlock. I had to lose you to realise how much I loved you.

When you came back, you brought me back to life. Our first kiss mixed with our tears, your hands glued to mine and our hearts beating inside our chests, in unison - _that_, Sherlock, is what I hold on every time I look at your empty chair, at your empty side of the bed, at your defiant but also empty eyes. That's what I remember when the only thing I hear from your lips is silence, when the only thing I feel from you is indifference.

That's what I remember every time I tell myself you still love me, every time when you silently convince me of the opposite.

I bless all these past years I had to be by your side. I bless you for letting me be in your arms, for letting me be the half of this whole, this whole that is us. Bless God for letting me be part of your life, for letting me be, for what seemed to be my turn, the owner of your lips, of your body, of your heart and of your love. All the things we lived together, all the crimes we solved, all the chasing during deadly hours of the night, our lazy Sunday mornings in bed doing nothing more than kissing and touching each other, making love all day long. Our cups of tea, our talks, our dinners out, those long walks holding hands, our everything. Bless all our moments together. And even though we stopped doing all of that, even though today the only things we share are silences, empty looks, broken hearts, memories, pain inside our chests and a dying love, believe me and don't ever forget this: I would never choose differently. If someone comes in here today and offers me the chance to go back in time and change you and all those things, all our life together so I don't suffer this dying love any more, I won't do it. Sherlock, I would never be able to choose anyone but you. Because I would choose it again; war, illness, and this pain again, all of it if only that means I'll meet you again.

Having said all of that, it is time for me to explain the reasons of this letter. I've considered and imagined the many scenarios that might follow my death. On one hand, you might just leave me on the bed, take your things and go away, forget you were ever married to me, an Army Doctor with a limp and a scar on the shoulder, a boring and mundane man. You might leave and let my body rot on what a long time ago was _our_ bed, the place where we loved each other and where we had plans together. On the other hand, you might realise what exactly I was to you, what I was in your life, how important I was and how much you loved me. It's a fifty-fifty chance.

I have confessed it. When you 'died' I realised how much I loved you. If you are reading this, it means you also realised how much you love me. I love you, Sherlock. God wanted you to come back to me, and you did, but I _won't_. I won't be able to come back as you did. It doesn't matter how much I want to, I won't. Things are bound to happen. But your life will get better, and I'm sure, I'm completely sure, you will have a long, prosperous and a very happy life ahead. I know you will, because I have to die so you live that life.

Please, Sherlock, my love, don't feel ashamed. Don't feel ashamed for finding love hidden in the deepest of your heart. You don't talk to me, you don't touch me, you don't kiss me, you don't even stop for a moment to look at me. But at the end of the day, when it's dark and when the moon is high on the sky, you keep coming back to me. You keep coming back to our bed, you keep gluing your back to mine, you keep resting your feet next to mine. I know you love me, I know you love me as much as I love you. I've realised and accepted I have to die to let you live. Because it's written in our destinies, in our lives. I have to die to make you understand how much love you have inside your heart, how much love you can give.

Sherlock, don't ever feel ashamed of yourself. Don't ever let people tell you that you're a freak, someone who doesn't deserve anything, because you're a genius, a very clever man who deserves everything the world can give to you. Don't ever try to change your destiny, don't ever try to bend your path. Don't ever try to look for me. Don't ever try to kill yourself. Don't even think of it. You have to understand things are bound to happen only to make us stronger. It sounds unfair, and I know you'll be looking for me to come for you, but you'll have to wait. Please, love, wait for me.

My dearest Sherlock, give yourself another chance. Breathe, laugh, smile, keep on working and please, love. Don't ever give up, don't mourn me, don't ask for my ashes, don't look back. Don't remember me, please, Sherlock, forget me. Find love again, Sherlock. Find someone who will respect you, who will love you and want you as much and even more than you deserve. Don't let that someone hurt you. Kiss, touch, love and have fun. You don't know it, and I hope you realise it when you read this, but you have lots of love inside you. Give it to someone and don't let it rot inside you. Have a family, have children, and give them all the love you once confessed you've always craved as a kid. Turn your dreams into plans, keep those bees you love so much.

Have a long life, Sherlock. Promise me you'll have a long life and I promise you with all my heart that it doesn't matter what it takes, I'll come back for you. Please, love, wait for me.

We will be together. Because death will never tear us apart.

I love you and I always will,

John Watson.

* * *

**Author's note: There's a prologue coming soon. Thanks for reading and please, review!**


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